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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26295688">a storge for you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassofwater/pseuds/glassofwater'>glassofwater</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Feels, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Cassandra Cain is Black Bat, Character Death, Court of Owls, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Donna is dead :(, Duke Thomas is Signal, Everyone Loves Dick Grayson, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jason Todd is Bad at Feelings, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Mentions of Cancer, Past Character Death, Police Officer Dick Grayson, References to Depression, Stephanie Brown is Spoiler, Talon - Freeform, Temporary Character Death, Tim Drake is Bad at Self-Care, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tragedy, everyone is sad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:46:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>40,846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26295688</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassofwater/pseuds/glassofwater</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They’ve never really believed in death. They know it exists, they see it all the time. It’s there, but it just doesn’t last for them. Death has never been permanent, only a mere pause in their lives. But here they stand, watching his coffin be lowered into the ground. </p><p>Infallible Dick Grayson was a fraud.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barbara Gordon &amp; Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain &amp; Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson &amp; Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson &amp; Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson &amp; Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson &amp; Duke Thomas, Dick Grayson &amp; Everyone, Dick Grayson &amp; Jason Todd, Dick Grayson &amp; Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown &amp; Dick Grayson, Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson &amp; Jason Todd &amp; Bruce Wayne &amp; Damian Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>166</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>506</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Will</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, this has been in the works for awhile! I'm going to admit, even though I have quite a lot of characters listed, it will mainly be focused on the bat bois- I hope you still enjoy this! Of course, tags are listed and used as my fair warning. I hope I do each of their characters justice :)</p><p>Fun Fact! Storge is one of the seven different types of Greek love and means unconditional, familial love. I thought it fit Dick pretty well!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>“Mr.Grayson details in paragraph four, line ten, ‘</b><b><em>I leave a USB drive to Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, Timothy Drake-Wayne, Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Wayne, and Duke Thomas.’ </em> </b> <b>Mr.Grayson further specifies that all who were listed must be present in order to open the drive.”</b></p>
<p>The world rattled deep inside their bones.  </p>
<p>It made them tremble, fault lines and cracks and fractures building up. Deep fissures spewed poison, ripping into their hearts and bleeding black. Bit by bit, their insides were being clawed out, torn apart and squeezed, leaving them breathless and empty and hollow. </p>
<p>The emptiness echoed, bouncing off of thin walls and unspoken words. Heated arguments and broken bones and near black bruises. Violent tears and harsher laughs. Too tight hugs and feather light touches. Whispered comforts and yells filled with love. Locked away wishes and final thoughts.</p>
<p>Final moments.</p>
<p>And then there’s nothing. Nothing at all. </p>
<p>Not even darkness.</p>
<p>
  <em> “My Will has been updated as of last week. There’s not much I have, nothing of any real value, but I’ve asked for this to be a part of it.” </em>
</p>
<p>They’ve gathered in the Cave, the only place any of them can tolerate the silence. The Manor is filled with too much of it, a fullness and encompassing nightmare that won’t stop no matter how many goodies Alfred bakes or how many curtains he opens. </p>
<p>There’s a room in the Manor that’s sealed away and locked tightly, down a hallway that hasn’t been swept in many weeks, and filled with the screeching quiet of ugly tears and horribly aching hearts.</p>
<p>In the Cave, where it always smells like mildew and sweat, they can muster up enough peace among themselves. Enough peace so that they aren’t immediately at each other's throats, yelling themselves hoarse until screamed words just won’t do it anymore and fists follow and smash. No insults and places of blame, of which they all share enough of.</p>
<p>They gather with only one goal.</p>
<p>To listen.</p>
<p>
  <em> “In the event that this actually happens, no fake deaths or left field disappearances, I’ve decided to make this. Again. I’ve been comfortable with my own mortality for a long time, maybe too comfortable, so I hope this says what it needs to. What I’m too afraid to do, most of the time.” </em>
</p>
<p>It’s unfair to say who had been hit the hardest. It had just been so unexpected, so sudden, and no one had been prepared for it. Of course, they all knew it could happen. None of them were as invulnerable and unbreakable as their personas liked to broadcast. Showing weakness on the job was like putting down a welcome mat for death, beckoning it in like an old friend.</p>
<p>They only ever danced with death, too fearful to ever ask for its name and invite it inside their homes.</p>
<p>Until now, that is.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Originally, I never wanted to make another video like this. I was banking on the hope that I would go out somewhat heroically. You know, with some style and class in the vigilante world. Or civilian world. I don’t judge where I choose to be heroic.  I always thought that if I didn’t and ended up slipping in the shower or something, well, just make sure it’s not marked on the headstone.” </em>
</p>
<p>It’s meant to be a joke. Some sarcastic phrase in the hopes of drawing out a laugh even with the implications. No one makes a sound.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Right, so, I’ll get into it. Property and assets and all that jazz are in the paper version. Like I said, there’s not much but I do have information. The USB you’re watching this on contains all the information I’ve gathered over the years; case files, new and old villains, up and coming crime lords and drug factions, locations, trackers, cults, assassins, and even some rising heroes. There’s other stuff on there as well, but you’ll see that later. I’m hoping it’s useful. I know Red Robin is the brains of the corporation, but I hope it helps at least a little bit.” </em>
</p>
<p>He says that name because he’s not a civilian in recording. He is Nightwing, mask firmly in place and uniform on like it’s any other night out on patrol. Everyone knows this, everyone has eyes and can clearly see that it is not Richard John Grayson speaking but his vigilante persona, but it still comes as a sharp reminder of who they are. What they are.</p>
<p>What they couldn’t be.</p>
<p><em> “It feels morbid, making this,” </em> the screen admits, the dull glow casting chasms of shadows on the weary yet fully focused group, <em> “But it needs to be done. I make videos like this every year, almost every other month, but it never feels any more normal. It’s not like I plan on dying out of nowhere, but it’s just... Yeah. It’s better to have something prepared, you know?” </em></p>
<p>He recorded this in his own apartment, the small kitchen light being the only source of illumination. Maybe if it were any other video, any other reason, Batman would make a comment about the danger of being home in uniform. Of allowing oneself to be so exposed.</p>
<p>He stays silent though. </p>
<p><em> “I had a whole list with me,” </em> Nightwing fumbles, like he’s supposed to know what to say but is just forgetting his lines. <em> “Things I wanted to talk about. Advice. Confessions. Maybe some final wishes. I’ve done this way too many times though. If I’m being frank, it feels like I’m already dead. Like I’ve been dead for a long time. A walking corpse.” </em></p>
<p>There’s a sharp intake of breath from the youngest one, a sign that he is startled and confused and angry. Robin is older now, all of them are. They’ve aged and grown up, shedding past childhood hopes and dreams and fully embracing reality for what it is and not what they want. But it doesn’t get easier. It never gets easier.</p>
<p>
  <em> “There was a time I was convinced I wouldn’t make it past eighteen. That I wouldn’t become an adult and live past being Batman’s partner. It comes with the job, putting your life on the line, but ever since I passed that milestone, it feels like I’ve been living on borrowed time. Honestly, I think I have been.” </em>
</p>
<p>A small pause. No one breathes as Nightwing slowly peels back the mask, revealing a very tired looking Dick Grayson.</p>
<p>
  <em> “I have a week before it finally runs out.” </em>
</p>
<p>There is a difference in suspecting and having it confirmed. Hearing it come straight out of the person’s mouth.</p>
<p>
  <em> “I was told a couple months ago. I’m sure one of you has already stolen the files, but I’ll put it bluntly and just say that there was nothing to be done. It was extremely aggressive and overwhelming . Please, god, please believe me when I say that I looked into every possible treatment, compromise, cure, antidote. You name it, I promise I looked into it. Looked for it. There just… The world just doesn’t have it. It just didn’t have a reasonable answer.” </em>
</p>
<p>Red Robin can feel an argument rising within him, the urge to scream and yell and rant at the recording and say that of course there’s a treatment. It doesn’t matter how hard he looked. There was one and if he had just <em> told </em> someone, if he had just told <em> him, </em>they would’ve found it together and Dick wouldn’t be. Wouldn’t be.</p>
<p><em> “It’s not painful,” </em> he comforts, rubbing his neck in that awkward way that just tells everyone he’s lying about something. <em> “Or, it wasn’t painful, depending on when you see this. I wouldn’t have even known it was there had it not been for the check-up. I debated about this for a long time, that is, about telling you all. Not a great way to break the news, is it?” </em></p>
<p>Dick laughs slightly, like this is all some joke to him. Like he wasn’t talking about his demise. Like he wasn’t talking about how he was going to die in a week. Like he wasn’t already speaking from the mouth of a dead man.</p>
<p>
  <em> “This is really shitty of me. I know it is. I’m probably going to cause you all more pain, but you guys know I’m selfish. I am a terribly selfish person and I just wanted…. Wanted these days I have to spend with you guys to be normal. To just be what they are. I didn’t want these precious moments to be of you guys sad or angry or for your memories of me to be any different than what I’ve always been. You have every right to be upset, but, yeah. It’s unfair and I am so sorr-” </em>
</p>
<p>The video freezes, paused in the moment, and no one moves. Slowly, Red Hood steps back from the computer, hands shaking as he pulls his fingers away from the panel.</p>
<p>“Fuck that,” he says, and his voice is trembling with emotion. Displaced rage and fury and grief. “Fuck that. Fuck <em> him. </em>”</p>
<p>“Jason, please-”</p>
<p>“No. Fuck him. Fuck him and his half-assed apology. He doesn’t get to say <em> sorry. </em>He doesn’t get to try and fucking apologize for this. He, He-”</p>
<p>The truth is, Jason has always been the most emotional of the bats. He feels violently, feels so many things, and embraces it. Most of the time, those feelings are anger that come out in the form of swearing and punches and rebellious actions that don’t always match up with what’s going on in his head. He confuses his anger with other emotions that are rolling around in his chest and he lets them out the only way he’s ever felt comfortable with.</p>
<p>But this? This uncontrollable heaviness? He has no idea what to do. </p>
<p>So he leaves. He storms out of the Cave, ignoring the shocked and sad faces of his brothers and sisters and Bruce, and gets on his motorcycle and just leaves. </p>
<p>Jason knows he’s being cruel by doing this. That they can’t play the video again until everyone is there to see it. That he’s just delaying the inevitable. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a damn about what he’s doing or what his family is doing or what Dick wanted them all to do. Dick doesn’t get to weigh in on his life or his decisions anymore.</p>
<p>He’s <em> dead </em> . The Golden Boy doesn’t have the right to sit on his shoulder anymore and tell him what’s the good thing to do. What’s the <em> merciful </em> thing to do. Clearly, he hadn’t had a clue as to what mercy was if he thought a fucking video was going to be enough to make up for what he did. To let them down easy. To <em>satisfy </em>them.</p>
<p>To let them fucking say<em> goodbye. </em></p>
<p>It’d been two weeks since the funeral. Closed coffin by preference. Small attendance with half the intended guests already dead.</p>
<p>Paramedics got a call from a neighbor, but by the time they had shown up and taken him to the hospital, he was already gone. Lifeless. Dead. When they finally called his emergency contact list, and no one picked up, they stashed him away in the morgue for the next six hours. And when Bruce Wayne arrived, ashen faced and panicked, they could only shake their heads and point him to the basement.</p>
<p>And then the media got wind of a Wayne sighting at the hospital, a rare photo of the billionaire with red eyes and a devastated face going viral. By then, everyone else had been phoned. </p>
<p>Jason doesn’t know what the other’s reactions were to getting a phone call from Bruce was, but he didn’t answer the first two times. He’d been having a good day, free of green tinged vision and the urge to sprint and run. After the third call, he picked up, ready to tell off the older man, only to hear the crack in his voice as he said,</p>
<p>
  <em> “Dick is dead.” </em>
</p>
<p>Not Nightwing. Dick. Dick was dead.</p>
<p>Jason knows he’ll eventually go back. He has to, out of obligation to his family and for himself. Because despite all his feelings towards him, he’d still been his brother. A damn good one at that. Even after all the shit they’d been put through, Dick still deserved a chance to be heard.</p>
<p>For now though, Jason was going to drive down an empty road, wind tearing at his arms, and not look back.</p>
<p>It only takes two days for him to return. The guilt, the worry, and the sheer curiosity that defiles his mind won’t leave him alone. It’s a voicemail that finally does him in, though. He’d been ignoring text message after text message, declining calls and generally trying his hardest to avoid everyone and everything. But all it takes is one voicemail for him to get back on his bike and pull up to the Manor once again.</p>
<p>No one ever leaves voicemails. They call a thousand times, spam text a million things, but they never leave a voicemail. It’s just something they don’t do, so when one comes through with the caller ID of<em> Brat, </em>he listens and feels the guilt fester.</p>
<p>Damian sounds small, his voice quiet and subdued. Like.... like he had lost.</p>
<p>“Please return.”</p>
<p>Like he had given up.</p>
<p>“If you do not wish to watch it, then don’t. But I cannot- We cannot watch it without your presence. Grayson… he wanted us all there. I want to hear it.”</p>
<p>For the first time, Damian sounds younger than his age would suggest. </p>
<p>“I need to hear it.”</p>
<p>It ends, the message short, and within the next hour, he is pulling up to the Manor driveway and swallowing back waves of discomfort. When he enters, Alfred simply hugs him briefly before directing him to the Cave.</p>
<p>Nothing had changed in his absence. All of them still looked tired and dirty. Worn out. Beaten.</p>
<p>Grief. It was an ugly thing.</p>
<p>Cass greets him silently, taking his hand and rubbing small circles into it. He doesn’t try to figure out if it's done for his comfort or hers, knowing that the world of emotion and body language was something he’d never be able to understand like she did.</p>
<p>Tim and Damian watch as he approaches, their faces hollowed out with the darkness of the Cave. The youngest avoids eye contact, but Tim makes it a point to stare, something akin to understanding and a bit of anger residing in his face. Like he knows why Jason ran. Like he knows what’s going on in his head.</p>
<p>Jason refuses to think too hard about it.</p>
<p>Duke and Steph are off to the side, sitting on the medical gurneys, purposefully sectioning themselves off. They never knew Dick like the rest of them did. Never really formed a solid relationship, something they knew they could rely on at all times. But Dick loved them anyway, considering them family the moment they decided to partner with the Bat. Nothing would change that.</p>
<p>Sometimes, Jason wondered how he did that. How Dick managed to love so freely and give out his care like it was limitless without expecting anything in return.</p>
<p>He’ll never admit it, but when he glances over to the only redhead in the room, his steps falter and he is quick to look away. Barbara… she hadn’t been the same. Not even close to normal. Closed off. Constantly day dreaming and looking far off into the distance. She sits primly in her chair, hands folded neatly and face straight forward, but there is nothing lively about her.</p>
<p>A part of her had died with the first Boy Wonder.</p>
<p>And Bruce, damnit, Jason doesn’t want to even think about what’s going on in the older man’s head. Doesn’t want to know if he’s grieving or completely dissociated from the problem. The only reason he’s stuck around the Manor for so long is to make sure some fucking memorial isn’t set up. Some fucking shrine to comemorate Dick like he was just some soldier who died on the battle field, his costume displayed in white light as some “reminder” of the cost of the lives they led.</p>
<p>Like he did with Jason.</p>
<p>He breathes harshly through his nose, walking stiffly with Cass until they’re within ten feet of the Batcomputer. He refuses to get any closer, and Cass merely squeezes his hand again before letting go and standing besides Barbara. </p>
<p>Bruce doesn’t even glance at him as his hands fly over the keyboard, pulling up the same video from what feels like a lifetime ago. His hands do stall over the play button though, as if hesitating, and all Jason can think is,</p>
<p>
  <em> Fuck that. </em>
</p>
<p>He does nothing though and simply crosses his arms as he stares at the paused image of the eldest of the brood. He hadn’t noticed it last time, was too confused with himself and angry at the person speaking, but Dick looked.... tired. Horribly so. </p>
<p>His shoulders are slumped, there’s a hand in his hair that’s in the middle of pulling, and his face looks so <em> old. </em>There are deep lines etched into his forehead, years of worry and stress placing them there. His cheeks are slightly hollowed, skin papery thin, face bare of any real color, and there’s a slight unkempt stubble dotting his jawline. </p>
<p>Jason swallows and tries to ignore that little voice in his head that chimes in with, <em> ‘He looks that way because he’s sick. He’s dying.’ </em></p>
<p>“Bruce?”</p>
<p>And suddenly Tim is there, having appeared silently besides the graying bat. His question rouses the older man and before any of them can say anything, he presses play and all attention is immediately on the screen.</p>
<p>
  <em> “I am so sorry.” </em>
</p>
<p>Jason has to force himself not to scoff, the habit rising in the back of his throat, but hearing those words again, the apology that shouldn’t have to be said, makes him feel sick.</p>
<p><em> “It’s not my intention to make you feel guilty or mad at yourselves for not noticing or whatever bullshit idea comes into those brains of yours,” </em>Dick says, knowing that that was exactly what they were all doing. He scowls, staring at the camera for what seems like an eternity, uncanny in his ability to make you feel judged when he wasn’t even there.</p>
<p>
  <em> “I know this is something that’s going to change a lot of things. I’m not going to pretend like my role in this corporation, family, or whatever it is we call ourselves, isn’t important. My job as Nightwing, a cover story or cover death, or whatever you guys decide to do, is going to mess up a lot of people.” </em>
</p>
<p>Damian can feel his lip curling back on instinct. No matter what he said, or what he claimed to know, Richard Grayson would never understand exactly how important he is. Was. Of course his… absence was going to change things. Every time someone was gone, it always changed things. Nightwing would be missed, sure, but someone could always step in and take his name. The very idea disgusts Damian, but he knows it’s plausible.</p>
<p>It’s what they all did with the name Robin.</p>
<p>But no one could ever replace Richard. No one could ever replace his Batman.</p>
<p><em> “And I know…” </em> Dick pauses for a moment, rubbing at his face and stopping to breathe in deeply. <em> “I know it’s going to mess up you guys, and I’m going to say it aloud because I know out of everyone watching this, except maybe Barbara and Duke, I’m the most emotionally stable. Always have been.” </em> A small pause. <em> “Well, besides Alfred of course” </em></p>
<p>It’s a really bad joke, borderline insensitive, but it startles a laugh out of Steph, who is quick to smother it. Her muffled silence triggers a small snort from Tim, his eyes straining as he stares a hole into the floor. They’re both ignored, noises and poorly concealed tears aside, in favor of keeping their eyes glued to the glow of the screen.</p>
<p><em>“So out with it it is- my death is going to screw you up</em><b><em>. </em></b><em>I’m dead and it’s going to mess you up.</em> <em>There, it’s said and done and over with. You don’t have to process it or strain yourselves too hard trying to ignore that little tidbit right there. I’m dead, and that’s… that’s going to be hard to recover from.</em></p>
<p>
  <em> It’s crass to put it like this, but you all are the most resilient people I’ve ever met. I know you’ll pull through, you’ve managed it before, but it’s going to be tough and I-” </em>
</p>
<p>Something aches, harsh and deep like a knife wound, as they hear the crack in his voice. As they see with their own eyes as Dick attempts to shield his face for a moment, as if they couldn’t see the horrible sadness drenching his face already.</p>
<p>Duke looks away, biting his lip as he feels his own eyes begin to water. He’ll never have the same connection with the man like everyone else did in the room, but Nightwing had been one of his idols. The picture of perfection and everything a hero should be. And he was.</p>
<p>Nightwing had been every bit as perfect and amazing as everyone had said. And Dick Grayson? The man behind the mask? Duke had never met a kinder, more open person in his life. Someone so selfless in every aspect of their life, constantly giving and providing and being so <em> good.  </em></p>
<p>Duke understands why they say never to meet your heroes. They often disappoint your expectations, but Dick blew past all of them. And now, to see him so broken and to see him <em> dead.... </em>God, it was all so messed up.</p>
<p>It takes a few seconds, harsh breathing and a battle for control, but Dick eventually looks up again. He still looks wrecked and grievously tired, but he can speak again.</p>
<p>
  <em> “I will never be sorry enough for letting that happen to you all. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to apologize enough, but I know that’s not why you’re still watching this. I hate apologies, we all do, but I don’t think I ever get tired of saying them. There’s this rotten little part of me that thinks that if I say it enough times, if the words come out of my mouth more often than not, then the fuck up I did won’t seem as big.” </em>
</p>
<p>Another pause. A deep breath. Shaking shoulders.</p>
<p>
  <em> “I love you guys. That’s another thing I never said enough, but I always tried my best to show how much I loved you. Maybe it’s just another thing to add to the list, but I wish I had shown you guys more often.  I love you all so much. You are my everything. My world. At this point, you are my sole reason for making this. For going through with this.” </em>
</p>
<p>He gestures vaguely towards the camera, as if pointing to the people watching through it, and a part of Tim’s brain screams, what does that mean? Dying? Making the video? Tim tells his brain to shut up.</p>
<p><em> “I think I loved you all too much,” </em> Dick says, like it’s some sort of confession. A secret he’s not even sure he’s ready to admit. To say out loud to the world. “ <em> I know it’s not something any of us are comfortable saying, it seems like such an insincere and irresponsible thing to say in our world, but it’s true. It’s probably the most truthful thing I’ve ever said in my life.  </em></p>
<p>
  <em> I love you guys. So much.” </em>
</p>
<p>For a moment, the words ring loud and clear, a sort of heavy clarity settling over the group. It’s true, they don’t say it much, have hardly said it more than ten times, and the words sit like salt in the mouth, but something inside alights with pure joy every time those words are said. Their hearts’ flutter, skips a beat, and euphoria is something rarely experienced, but it dances in their brains for days after.</p>
<p>It’s a sentiment scarcely uttered, but distance makes the heart grow fonder, and oh, how those words are what they needed to hear. Are what they needed to reassure themselves about, because what if it wasn’t true? What if the happiest, funniest, and most sane person in their little messed up family didn’t love them? What if the best of all of them died hating them?</p>
<p>What would they do then?</p>
<p>What would they do if Dick didn’t love them?</p>
<p>
  <em> “Whether you believe it or not, each and every one of you are my family. It's an estranged and troubled family for sure, but there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t trade or do for you all. I’ve done it before, and I’ll gladly do it a thousand times over again, even if it ends with you hating me. I won’t make the promise that my actions were the best ones. That the option I picked given the array of choices spread out was the one with the most amount of pros or least amount of cons. In the end, this was my decision.” </em>
</p>
<p>It is all Cassandra can do but stare in awe at her family as the video continues to play. She sees the way Dick’s shoulders are tense, sees the way his eyes squint just a slightly, how his hands fidget and move towards his jaw as if pained. She sees this all, and yet her family seems blind to it. Blind to the fact that Dick is lying to them. She’s not completely sure which part of it all he’s lying about, doesn’t know the right way to word it or say something about it, so she stays quiet.</p>
<p>Stays silent and continues to observe her brothers, sisters, and new-father willingly eat up every word that comes out of the former eldest’s mouth. A part of her wants to feed into the lie as well, ignore the signs and red-flags, because this is Dick. This is Nightwing. </p>
<p>He is part of her family, and she loves her family and trusts them entirely. So, why would he lie?</p>
<p>
  <em> “I’ve been plagued my entire life by regret. It’s an evil little thing, isn’t it? I had hoped that one day this heaviness inside of me would go away, that all my mistakes and regrets from choices I made and didn’t make would disappear. However, this isn’t something I regret. Maybe the way I’m leaving you is regretful, but being who I am is something I cannot regret. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Being Richard Grayson led me to you, Bruce, and that’s possibly the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me.” </em>
</p>
<p>For the first time, all attention shifts to the graying man sitting in the computer chair. His eyes are closed, and there’s this subtle but sad tilt to his lips, but anyone with half a brain can tell that he’s listening. That his heart is racing at the possibility that he might’ve done something good for one of his children. That there’s this slight trace of what might be hope rising in his chest that his first son might’ve been happy to be his.</p>
<p>That Dick might’ve been happy to be a Wayne.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Being Robin opened up new doors for me, new worlds and feelings, and I met one of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever had the honor to meet. That’s you, if you didn’t already know, Barbara.” </em>
</p>
<p>There’s a small sniff from the red head, a wetness building and threatening to spill, but her gaze is strong as she meets those bright blue eyes head on. She is proud. She knows she is extraordinary. She knows that Dick thought the world of her. But she also knows that she was never as great as he claimed her to be.</p>
<p>
  <em> “I remember being angry when I first became Nightwing, obvious by my first outfit choice I’m sure, but I don’t regret leaving Robin to you, Jason. I’m proud of you. I got the privilege to watch you become the man you are today, and even though it was a rocky start, I’m proud. So proud.” </em>
</p>
<p>If he had the will power, Jason could probably come up with some remark on how patronizing Dick sounded, how degrading it was to act as if he didn’t hate his guts at the start, but the lump in his throat refuses to let any of those words out. He’s not about to cry, his eyes are dry, but the weight, the <em> grief </em>, in his chest hurts even more than the first time. Is this what Dick felt like when he died?</p>
<p>Had Dick really seen him as a brother?</p>
<p>
  <em> “Robin has always just been a name, a persona, but it was never something I should’ve taken away from you, Tim. There is a weight to the name itself, and you carried it so well, but I don’t regret pushing you into making something of your own. You have always been your own person, regardless of what others tell you.” </em>
</p>
<p>It’s always been a touchy subject, the second Batman’s rejection of the third Robin. Tim understands it better now, it’s been years after all, but there is still a sore spot that hates to be prodded. It was a special kind of hurt to know that you were overqualified but still denied the job in favor of someone else. However, Tim doesn’t think he would’ve had it any other way. Red Robin is his, and his alone. No one could take that from him.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Steph, Duke, Cass, you… you guys deserved more from me. I won’t make the claim that I tried my best to bond with you guys at the start, that’s an unfortunate habit of mine, but I want to believe that right now, we can consider each other family. I’ve known each of you for some time now, and these years have been phenomenal. You’ve taught me so much, changed my perspective on so many things, and I am forever grateful I met you guys. You’re a bigger part of my world than you’ve been led to believe. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that.” </em>
</p>
<p>The three of them share a glance, knowing they are more or less branches of the bat family tree. They acknowledge that fact with dignity, there is no malice at not being part of the roots, the origins, but sometimes, and they’ll never admit it, they do wish they could hold that special position. That they could share the honors, the pains, the tragedies, and everything else that connect Batman and his sons so strongly. Dick, in the later years of their involvement, made an effort to bring them closer together, but it was never the same. </p>
<p>They still appreciated him for trying though.</p>
<p>He made them a part of the family after all.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Robin.” </em>
</p>
<p>Dick says it with reverence, as if speaking about a long forgotten memory he’s only just recalled, and his face is pinched in longing. An ache and desire so deep it wounds and continues to hurt long after the blow is dealt. It was once his name, too. His first name, the name his mother gave him on the days where the world was just that bit brighter. The days where life wasn’t so hard and the nights were only filled with hopeful dreams.</p>
<p>He says it now, addressing the latest heir to the mantle. Damian’s eyes are locked in on the screen, focused and attentive to every word. He is waiting for his turn. He is waiting for Dick’s words for him.</p>
<p>His last words for him.</p>
<p><em> “Robin,” </em> Dick says again, the name still holy on his tongue, stars in his eyes and face, even as his voice cracks and falters, <em> “I’m so happy I got to be your Batman, your partner, and your brother. We were the best, Damian. The best.” </em></p>
<p>Damian did not cry when his father called him to share the news. He did not cry when they showed him Richard’s body. He refused to feel anything at the funeral, regardless of the wet faces around him. Crying was a weakness. A sign to the enemy that emotions could get the better of you during times of crisis. That you were only human, and thus fallible. Breakable. Weak.</p>
<p>But Richard… Richard had never believed any of that. He had believed with every nerve of his body that emotions were a good thing. That they were a sign of strength, a sign of humanity rather than mortality. That tears and snot and a sniveling and pitiable disposition was nothing to be ashamed of. Damian had never understood how any of those things could be taken in a prideful manner though.</p>
<p>He wished he did. He wished he saw the world the way Richard did.</p>
<p>It is the past tense that finally breaks him. The <em> were </em>in that small sentence that sends the tears cascading and his chest stuttering. How? How could anyone find strength in such a miserable state? How did Richard manage to do it? </p>
<p>It was never supposed to be “<em> were the best”.  </em> They <em> are </em> the best. They are Batman and Robin. They are Nightwing and Robin. They are Richard Grayson and Damian Wayne, the <em> best.  </em></p>
<p>But there is no <em> “They” </em>anymore, is there?</p>
<p>Dick’s smile is filled with sickness, leaking distress from every pore and splitting at its edges. He smiles though, squeezes his eyes together and smiles like it’s the only thing he’s ever been able to do. Like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him going. This is just a glimpse for them. A glimpse into his world when it was all falling apart. When it was ending.</p>
<p>When he was dying.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Be good and take care of each other. I’ll see you on the other side.” </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, I met a wonderful reader on tumblr who goes by @viceturtle and they are extremely talented and generous and wonderful and they made this BEAUTIFUL fanarts for chapter one!!</p>
<p>  <a href="https://romanticism-is-maudlinism.tumblr.com/post/648543311911600129/fanart-by-viceturtle-for-my-fanfic-a-storge-for">Dick looking in the monitor</a></p>
<p>  <a href="https://romanticism-is-maudlinism.tumblr.com/post/649015434081894400/viceturtle-did-it-again">Jason getting upset</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Glimpse of the Aftermath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please mind the tags</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We come to you tonight with some breaking celebrity news. Bruce Wayne, billionaire and CEO of Wayne Enterprises, was just spotted teary eyed and shaking at the Bludhaven Regional Medical Center. We have been unable to verify with the Waynes as of yet what the cause is for the billionaire’s appearance at the hospital, but we will keep you all updated as more news comes.”</p><p>
  <b>. . .</b>
</p><p>“Following up on the Wayne story from earlier today, one of our reporters was able to confirm that Richard Grayson, eldest ward of the billionaire, is the reason for Bruce Wayne’s appearance in the Bludhaven hospital. Richard claims Bludhaven as his home away from home, and actively works as a police officer in Gotham’s sister city. Though no further details have been released as of yet, Wayne Enterprise has assured the media that a statement will eventually be put out. For now, we can only speculate on the reason for the unfortunate visit.”</p><p>
  <b>. . .</b>
</p><p>“Good evening, Gotham. We have just received tragic information. Richard “Dick” Grayson, former trapeze artist and ward of billionaire Bruce Wayne, is dead. In a statement released on the Wayne Enterprise social medias, it has been confirmed that Richard died yesterday at the Bludhaven Regional Medical Center. The Wayne family has requested that the media and the public respect their privacy during this grief stricken time and ask no further questions. Gotham is deeply saddened by the news of one of our beloved prince’s passing. Our condolences go out to the Waynes.”</p><hr/><p>“Well, Ken, I’m just as shocked as everyone else is. I mean, this just seems so out of nowhere. Richard’s death doesn’t seem like an accident, but it was just so sudden. I’m sure all of Gotham is looking for answers, and I must admit, I have my own suspicions over all of this.”</p><p>“Care to share those thoughts, Karen?”</p><p>“Honestly, this all smells like a PR stunt. It’s possible Wayne Enterprises is looking for some more press coverage on their voting activity. We all know Commissioner Gordon and Bruce Wayne are quite close, and the position for Police Chief just opened up. Horrifyingly, the timing of Richard’s death and the elections coming up are too close to one another to not be connected.”</p><p>“I have to agree with you on that. It’s all quite suspicious. So, do you think his death was staged?”</p><p>“I can’t say for certain. Richard appeared quite healthy a couple weeks ago, no signs of illness or him lying on his deathbed, haha! Perhaps the wealthy are just that good with cosmetics, Ken!”</p><p>“They certainly have the money to spend for such things! Rumor has it that Bruce Wayne has had many surgeries in the past to cover up....”</p><hr/><p>“So, I know all of Gotham and even our sister city, Bludhaven, have been dying to know more details surrounding the death of former circus boy turned heir to one of the most profitable enterprises in the world, Richard Grayson. Well, wonder no more! I have insider information from a very reliable source, who has requested to remain anonymous, that- get this- the twenty nine year old died from an exotic disease found only in the Caribbean! Now, when the source told me this, I was floored. Floored! You would think a healthy and quite wealthy young man, especially one as attractive as the late heir, would’ve found a way to treat such a disease. Makes you wonder if there was something <em> more </em>going on behind the scenes, right?</p><p>Here’s my theory, lovely listeners. I believe that the late heir was murdered because he found something out he wasn’t supposed to. Now, I have two subsets on that theory. The Waynes are old money, going back to colonial times, and I’m willing to bet my life that they’ve dipped their fingers in a couple bad pies, if you catch my drift. As the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat. I imagine it was a situation like that of Diana and the royal family.</p><p>My second subset is that, as most people know, the former circus boy was a police officer infamous for weeding out and snitching on the ‘corrupt cops’ in Bludhaven. Well, that kind of reputation is bound to end in some serious bad blood. Mayhaps something slipped into the unsuspecting officer’s drink as a consequence of his history.”</p><hr/><p>“Mr.Wayne, Mr.Wayne! What do you have to say about the recent podcasts about Mr.Grayson and the allegations surrounding them?”</p><p>“No comment.”</p><p>“Mr.Wayne! Can you tell us more about what the future of Wayne Enterprises will look like now that one of its prominent shareholders is gone?”</p><p>“We will continue on as we always have. Richard’s share will be kept open, and as per his request, any money gained from that will be donated.”</p><p>“Mr.Wayne! Is it true that you will be giving your support to Jim Gordon during the upcoming P.D office switches?”</p><p>“Yes, Jim has been one of the supporting figures in my life and I can proudly call him one of my closest friends. I believe Jim can help restore balance in Gotham streets by becoming Chief.”</p><p>“Is this a biased benefit or do you actually believe Gordon will do more to help Gotham crime?”</p><p>“I fully believe that Jim Gordon will do all he can in improving Gotham for the better. The man has no secret agenda to better himself. He truly wishes to help people, and for that reason, he has my vote.”</p><p>“And what of the Batman and his entourage? If Gordon has plans to clean up the streets, does that include the vigilantes?”</p><p>“I do not know the intimate details of Gordon’s plan for betterment, but it is my hope that with his help, Batman will no longer be needed. Perhaps in the future, Gotham’s Dark Knight will retire and Gotham will become a brighter city filled with hope rather than misery.”</p><p>“Mr.Wayne! Please, the public wants to know more about Richard-”</p><p>“I’m sorry, but that’s all the time I have. No further questions.”</p><hr/><p>“Excuse me, Timothy, how are you coping with your recent loss?”</p><p>“Sorry, but I won’t answer any questions outside of scheduled interviews.”</p><p>“Come on, all of Gotham is curious. Dick, ah what a funny name, was a prominent figure in their lives too. We practically watched him grow up. Gotham has a right to know about what led to his death.”</p><p>“If you have questions, you can go to one of the press events, but we asked not to be approached on the streets.”</p><p>“Do you feel no grief over your semi-brother's death?”</p><p>“What? Of course, but please, we want to be left alone right now.”</p><p>“What about you, Damian? Seeing as you’re the newest addition to the Wayne family, I’m sure this is all quite-”</p><p>“Are you deaf? Drake asked you to leave us alone. I would suggest you do so before I have you arrested for harassment.”</p><p>“Now, that’s not nice, Damian. We’re just asking you questions, it’s in our rights to do so. I suppose you’re still learning manners and such, seeing as you were raised in such an exotic environment. The similarities between you and your brother’s upbringing are striking. You have that in common, though Dick eventually learned to act normal.</p><p>Tell me, when your brother was still alive, did he still speak with that weird, vampirish accent when he was away from the public? Or did he learn to speak normally too?”</p><p>“Sir, I’m not going to ask this again. If you don’t leave immediately, it’s in <em> my </em>rights to sue you for harassment.”</p><p>“Come now, be reasonable- oh my god, Damian, are you crying? Are those actual tears? I guess you are an emotional child after all. Wow, this is really something!”</p><p>“Damian? Damian, what’s wrong? What- oh.”</p><p>“I suppose you miss your big brother quite a lot, right-”</p><p>“You’ll be hearing from our lawyers soon, sir. Let’s go, Damian. Alfred won’t wait forever.”</p><hr/><p>“In light of all the speculation and recent accostment of two of my sons, I have decided to answer a few of your questions. Now, I am doing so to end the harassment to my family and the employees at Wayne Enterprises. I am angry and greatly disappointed at those who have gone out of their way to ignore my family’s request to remain unbothered by the media. Once I have answered these questions, I will not speak further on the matter. If any news, blogs, podcasts, or any other forms of media decide to further speculate and spread defamation on Richard, myself, or anyone associated with the Waynes, I will put an end to it and take legal action. I can assure those thinking of testing their luck that the outcome will not be favorable for them.”</p><p>“Mr.Wayne, can you tell us about the circumstances surrounding Mr.Grayson’s death?”</p><p>“Richard was diagnosed with terminal cancer about six months ago. He decided to forgo treatment and made the decision to live out the rest of his days as best as he could.”</p><p>“He appeared completely fine in public though.”</p><p>“My eldest has always been very strong. Being a symbol of strength to not only his family, but his peers as well, was one of his most notable qualities.”</p><p>“Did you know about the diagnosis before Richard’s passing?”</p><p>“No. Out of concern for his family, he decided to keep the diagnosis private. My family and I respect his decision, as it was not ours to make.”</p><p>“What are your plans for the future?”</p><p>“For now, I am uncertain. Currently, there are plans being put into place to set up a new fund for the terminally ill, which will be named after my eldest. Wayne Enterprises will continue on, and my family and I will take time to ourselves to recover.”</p><p>“And how are you doing, Mr.Wayne? How are you coping?”</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>“Mr.Wayne?”</p><hr/><p>He’s tired. It’s a bone deep tired, right down to the cellular level, and the confusing grief inside of him isn’t helping either.</p><p>Dick has been “dead” for about a month now. They buried him three days after they pulled him from the morgue, then two weeks later, the video Will was brought to their attention by some lawyer Dick had been friends with when he worked with the Investigation Division in Bludhaven. During those two weeks, the media had been relentless in their pursuit for more information on the very private and intimate details of their lives. </p><p>Not even four hours after Bruce had called him to break the news, half of Gotham had already figured out what had happened. Sometimes, Tim forgets how public their lives are. How there are eyes constantly watching them, waiting for the next gossip story to spread and indulge in for the next few days. The rumors that jumped to life were disgusting, suggestions of some political plot in the mix of the “former circus boy’s” death beyond repulsive to hear and read about. </p><p>He can’t blame them. He sees where they’re coming from, the abruptness of Dick’s death shocking to Gothamites. Of course, to battle with this shock, people had to create stories and explanations to combat their unpreparedness. It would seem absurd for them not to notice someone dying when they were the son of someone as infamous as Bruce Wayne. The public eye prides itself in knowing every detail of a celebrities life, so to have this thrown in their faces without warning is startling and slightly maddening for them.</p><p>So, yeah. Tim gets it. </p><p>That doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate them for it though.</p><p>It’d been a long time since he’d been approached so often by paparazzi and personal bloggers alike. The cameras flashing in his face, the deeply personal and frankly disconcerting questions, the constant looking over his shoulder only to see someone rushing over with a microphone in hand. Who even revels in the face of a crying person? Or asks someone if they’re sad over their brother’s death? He knows he and Damian aren’t the most vocal about their feelings, but come on.</p><p>Of course he’s fucking sad. Devastated actually. Crushed. Extremely dismayed. Going slightly psychotic over trying to figure out if Dick is actually dead or not.</p><p>Yeah, he’ll admit it. He has his doubts. He has so many doubts that its nearly driven him crazy grappling with the idea of another fake death. They’ve all done the stunt once or twice in their lives. Jason managed to pull it off for years before any of them thought to wonder, <em> “Hm, who is that strange man in the red helmet?” </em>Steph died dramatically too, off to who-knows-where because of Leslie. </p><p>Damian was a special case, but here he was. Alive. Breathing. Not dead.</p><p>Bruce never really died per-say, but they held a funeral and Dick became Batman. That’s as good as dead if you ask him.</p><p>Dick pulled the stunt once, and it messed all of them up. To this day, Tim is surprised at how much it messed them up. And to hear that he’d <em> let </em>them all believe he was dead, told no one except Bruce so he could go off to Spyral and gallivant around without a care in the world? Frankly, Tim whole-heartedly believes he deserved that punch in the face.</p><p>You don’t do that to someone. You don’t do that to your family. Especially on purpose. He can understand everyone else’s circumstances, they had no choice in the matter, but Dick had all the opportunities to say something. Even a year after his return, Dick still refused to say anything about the circumstances that led to his infiltration of Spyral, and it has rubbed Tim the wrong way ever since.</p><p>Dick has done a lot of things in his life that have rubbed people the wrong way. He’s pissed off a lot of people, but somehow manages to seek and receive forgiveness every time. </p><p>Tim <em> gets </em> it. He does. Dick is a likable person. He’s a ray of light for a lot of people, especially considering the crowd he surrounds himself with. No matter what kind of shit spray comes his way, <em> somehow </em>, Dick always manages to bounce back. Mission gone wrong? No worries, he’s got a backup plan and encouragement to go with it. Dead friend? He’s there as a shoulder to cry on, and when he’s the one grieving, he never lets himself indulge in his sadness for long. Hell, dead family member? Dick will try his damned hardest to fill that void, either with himself or someone more capable of fulfilling the role.</p><p>Tim. Gets. It.</p><p>But he still refuses to believe that Dick would leave them out to dry like he just did with his “death”. No. No way would he do that. It doesn’t fit his character profile to just die out of nowhere with no backup plan or explanation. It doesn’t make sense for him to-- god, what are they going to do? </p><p>What are they going to do without Dick Grayson in their lives?</p><p>Just like Jason said earlier, Dick doesn’t just get to apologize for something like this and expect everything to stitch itself back together. People don’t work like that. <em> They </em>have never worked like that.</p><p>So, yeah. Sue him for believing that Dick isn’t actually dead. Of course, the mountain of evidence left behind that validates his reason for being buried is quite substantial, but documents can be faked and stories can be made up. Again, they, meaning the entire Batman Corporation and literally half the hero community, have done it before. Have disappeared without a trace and thought dead only to return a few months later with some ridiculous story or half-assed explanation and excuse.</p><p>It’s completely plausible. He’s not crazy for thinking the entire thing is fabricated.</p><p>Even with his shaky but still there belief, Tim’s heart still clenches painfully when he thinks about his brother. The phone call from Bruce had felt like a dream, his voice watery and filled with yet another layer of unresolved grief. Tim was the last one to arrive at the hospital, and no one uttered a word as they were taken to the morgue for identification.</p><p>Of course, Tim knows Bruce had already identified the body and matched the name to the face. He knows that the only reason the hospital let that many people into such a solitary and horrible room was because Bruce Wayne had asked them to. And he knows the only reason Bruce asked was because he <em> knew </em>that they needed closure so they wouldn’t spend the rest of their lives wondering if it was actually true or not.</p><p>Tim has always been a firm believer in the truth of a body at a crime scene. It’s why he continued to search for Bruce for all those months. There had been no body. No evidence to prove a death. Nothing at all.</p><p>And yet, there Richard Grayson had lain; pale, feet beginning to purple, and black hair splayed like a halo. His eyes had been closed, and something inside of Tim had torn itself apart at the idea that he’d never get to see that hue of blue again. That his voice would never reach that particular pitch when he was genuinely happy. That he’d never give out another hug for comfort or joy.</p><p>Even at the funeral he couldn’t stand the idea of seeing such a lifeless face, and it was unanimously decided for a closed coffin. No one in attendance wanted the reminder of how fallible the once untouchable had been. Watching him be lowered into the ground, mere feet away from where his parents ashes rested, Tim couldn’t help but think that this was actually goodbye.</p><p>That this was truly the end.</p><p>There had been a body. Tim had seen the body. Seen it and stared at it with his own eyes until they stung and he couldn’t bear to look any longer.</p><p>There were pages and pages of medical documents, PET scans, X-Rays, and even an MRI. All of them checked out, all of them were legit, and Tim had gone as far as to “steal” the autopsy report. He still hadn’t dared to look at it too closely, something about the idea of looking at scans of his dead brother compared to scans of when he was alive disturbing and indecent.</p><p>In the end, all of it ticked the correct boxes and seemingly nothing was amiss. Nothing was wrong. The proof was there.</p><p>And yet, despite his own previous beliefs and all the factual evidence piled up against him, Tim still couldn’t believe Dick was dead. He had grieved once over him, and Tim wasn’t ready to restart that process. He doesn’t think he could handle it a second time.</p><p>It just couldn’t be true. People like Dick don’t just die. It’s just not possible.</p><p>But, then again, Dick had always managed to do the impossible.</p><hr/><p>“Batman?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“What are we going to do about Bludhaven? They’re bound to notice that Nightwing is… absent.”</p><p>“We’ll talk about that later.”</p><p>“But, I just think that, ya know, with so many gangs and crime lords over there, it’ll-”</p><p>“Not now, Red Robin.”</p><p>“Jim doesn’t have district control over there! Everything Nightwing worked for is going to go to shit if we don’t think of something to rectify-”</p><p>“I know! I know that! I... I’ll think of something later, but our focus needs to be here. It <em> needs </em>to be in the present. Distractions-- we cannot allow ourselves to become distracted. Not now.”</p><p>“It’s never going to be the right time, is it?”</p><p>“No, it’s not. I’m sorry.”</p><hr/><p>He should be ashamed of himself. If Mother knew of what he had been doing this last month, she would punish him. She would tell him that he was being childish and foolish, that he should never have allowed his emotions to take control over him so easily. She would demand answers from him, reasons on why he’s allowed himself to indulge in fantasies and tears when faced with reality.</p><p>Even now, just thinking about her disappointment and anger in him were she ever to find out sends his heart thundering and his head aching.</p><p>And what of Father? What would he have to say about his sniveling excuse of a son? Father had hardly done anything in the past month besides patrol and the occasional press conference. Just the thought of the reason for him to hold the conferences sends Damian into a spiral of self-loathing and guilt.</p><p>Watching the poorly edited video of that blogger doesn’t even feel real. Had he really done that? Had he really been brought to tears over the mere mention of his deceased brother? The boy in that video couldn’t have been Damian Wayne, blood-son and heir to Bruce Wayne and the mantle of Batman. No, Damian Wayne is strong. He is composed. He is fearless. He has no weaknesses.</p><p>And yet, that small boy in the video had succumbed to poorly concealed emotions and allowed himself to be vulnerable and exposed. He had been but a <em> child </em>, and it was to his great embarrassment that Drake had been the one to take control of the situation.</p><p>Sometimes, Damian wonders what Drake thinks of him. Really thinks of him. Past the obvious resentment, Damian wonders if Drake feels compassion towards the youngest. What were his motives, back then? Why had he been so slow to defend himself from the blogger, but quick to take control once it was clear Damian was incapable? He couldn’t think of any logical reason behind it. In all actuality, it would have benefitted Drake more if he had left the blogger alone and allowed him to continue his inane questions.</p><p>So, why? Why had he done it?</p><p>Why should Damian even care what Drake thinks of him or what his motives were?</p><p>A part of him says that he cares what others think of him. That he wants their approval, as if the validation from his peers is what makes him so great. An even smaller part of him whispers that he wants their trust and approval because Richard had given it to him. That Richard had been the only one to let him prove himself without looking down on him for his age.</p><p>Even now, Father, Drake, and Todd don’t completely trust his abilities. Always questioning if he should be allowed to go on the more dangerous or gruesome missions. Always assuming he didn’t have the skills or knowledge to complete a task deemed too hard for the likes of a “Robin”.</p><p>Richard had believed in him. Richard had trusted him. Richard had looked at him as an equal, a partner, a necessary aspect to his Batman, rather than a liability.</p><p>When he patrols with Father, he senses that same trust, but there is always lingering doubt in the way his Father moves or slows his pace for his benefit. As if he believes that despite all the training Damian had gone through, both under the League of Assassins and Batman, that he could not keep up. That he would fall behind if not looked after. That he was incapable of reaching the standards set out before him.</p><p>The very idea repulses Damian, sends his blood boiling and his stomach convulsing. </p><p>Why, after four years of faithfully standing by their sides, did no one trust him? What else must he do to prove to them that he could do it all? That he was more than competent? </p><p>Why does no one look at him the way Richard had?</p><p>The thought hurts him, the tell-tale burn in the back of his eyes a dead give away to the answers he is looking for. </p><p>There is only one common denominator in all his questions, all his theories, all his doubts and fury. There is something about <em> him </em>that they don’t trust. It is the reality that no matter how hard he works, how loyal he is, how many times he proves himself over and over again; no matter what he does, there is an inherent part of him all refuses to trust. Perhaps even he himself is wary of that leeching aspect of his nature.</p><p>There is something wrong with him. Something vile and monstrous that can’t be looked past. Perhaps it is the blood that has stained his hands since he was six. Perhaps it is the honor he found himself basking in every time he was praised by Grandfather. Maybe it’s because he was not meant to be in this world but forced himself to be present anyway. </p><p>No one had wanted him when he first arrived. Mother had told him his only goal in life was to replace Batman, to become the greatest warrior there ever was, and when he had come to the wretched steps of Gotham and discovered that not only had there been one, but four predecessors to the mantle and all had failed; even to this day he cannot describe the feeling. Apprehension possibly. Apprehension at the idea of trying to succeed where so many, admittedly, great warriors had fallen. There was a small bit of smug pride, however, at the prospect of being the first to succeed. His birthright to the throne.</p><p>That only a Wayne, born of blood, could ever be worthy enough.</p><p>And yet he had been turned away and scorned by all except one. </p><p>He misses Richard. Terribly so. It is an admission he feels uncomfortable exploring, the idea of missing someone so horribly that it interferes with his work shameful. Is he not supposed to be better than this? Is he not supposed to power through and ignore the awful ache inside of him everytime he mistakenly thinks of calling Nightwing? Is he not supposed to be able to ignore the thought of how wonderfully sad it would be to watch Disney movies until the early hours of morning, the hope that some distant memories of he and Richard’s time together clawing its way back to the forefront of his mind?</p><p>Is he not supposed to be able to calm his racing heart every time a vision of ghostly pale features and empty eyes startles him awake? Is he not supposed to hide his disgraceful tears that spring to life when all he wants is for them to remain as dead as his brother? And what of the others? They all carry on faithfully, without fault, and yet here he sits, alone, contemplating his role now that his confidant and support is gone.</p><p><em> You truly are but a child, </em> Damian thinks, the encroaching feeling of hot tears returning again. <em> What would Richard think of this pitious disposition? </em></p><p>He thinks it scornfully, an attempt at scolding himself and banishing the heaviness that cloaks him, but the voice inside of him won’t shut up with its incessant reminders that, no, Richard would not be disappointed. </p><p>He wouldn’t yell or be angry at his sadness. He wouldn’t care that Damian had been sloppy on patrol or that he had secluded himself from the rest of this scavenged family. If anything, Richard would sit with him in the dark room, perhaps even begin humming or talking or doing anything to keep the silence away. And if he was lucky, Richard may even have reached over and placed a hand in his hair for comfort. Perhaps even a hug to replace the storm that covers his body. He would sit with him for hours in the dark room, even spend the night, and he wouldn’t care if Damian never said a word.</p><p>He wouldn’t care because Richard <em> trusted </em>him. He knows that sometimes he just doesn’t know the right words to express his thankfulness or distaste or happiness. He is aware of all his faults, perhaps more so than anyone else in the entire world, and yet Richard still trusted him.</p><p>Damian might even be bold enough to call it love.</p><p>That Richard had loved him enough to look past his lawless deeds and his acts of terror upon anyone who dared question his place. That Richard had loved him to the point where he saw Damian. Actually saw Damian Al-Ghul Wayne as himself and not the warrior he had been born to be.</p><p>He had asked once, plucked up the courage to be daring, what it meant to love. </p><p>
  <em> “Love?” Richard had said, curious and surprised. Immediately, Damian had backtracked, embarrassment quickly replacing any bravery that had taken residence. It was a stupid question after all. Everyone knew what love was and he was just being idiotic- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I think,” the older man started, thoughtful and wistful, “to love is to be truly happy. Peaceful. I’m still trying to figure out what it is, but I think the closest I’ve ever come to it is happiness.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “And what of it?” Damian had demanded. “What makes someone worthy of love if it is merely happiness?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Richard had given him this strange look, and Damian always hated it when Richard would look at him so. It meant that he was reading him, understanding and becoming privy to the thought process he kept hidden.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Dami, no one has to be worthy to love. It’s not something you have to earn or deserve. It just is. Love is for everyone.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The idea that it was something you didn’t have to work for, that it was just given, was absurd. There had not been a single thing in his life he did not have to earn or demand. The very clothes on his back he had labored and trained many years for. The only reason he was alive was because he had been worthy enough for this life. He had proven himself enough to be alive. So what of love?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Even me?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Damian does not mean to say it aloud, it was meant for him to think about by himself in the shelved corners of his mind, but it comes out anyway and of course Richard hears it. He hears it and Damian both hates and is attached to the way his eyes crease and head dips lower as he turns to fully face him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You exist. You are alive. That is more than enough for love, Damian.” </em>
</p><p>Now, Damian thinks back on those words, how they hadn’t fully settled and he had accepted them at surface level. Now, Damian wishes he had been able to express his gratitude. Been able to muster up the right words to tell Richard how much that had meant to him. </p><p>Even in death, Richard somehow finds a way to bring comfort even to someone as undeserving as him. Since that day where they had gathered in the Cave to listen to his final goodbyes, Damian had clung to those words.</p><p>Batman. Partner. Brother. The best.</p><p>Not too long ago, Damian would have vehemently denied any sort of affection or special regard towards the first Robin. Right now though, he wishes nothing more than to tell Richard that he thinks he finally understands what love is. That it is painful and a tremendous weakness to boast about, but he thinks it might’ve been worth it. </p><p>Loving Richard Grayson and being loved in return had been worth it.</p><hr/><p>“Oracle?”</p><p>“Yes, Robin?”</p><p>“Do you… think of him?”</p><p>“Almost all the time.”</p><p>“And do you miss him?”</p><p>“I miss him everyday. I’m waiting for the moment where it hurts just a little less. The moment where I feel just a bit more… me.”</p><p>“It seems we are both waiting in vain, then.”</p><p>“Maybe so, but I hope one day we won’t be.”</p><hr/><p>It’s raining in Gotham.</p><p>He shouldn’t be surprised. Somehow, Gotham always knew when one of its own was being tampered with, the whole damn city notorious for disastrous weather and even more disastrous people.</p><p>Because it’s raining, the ground is wet. Which means, if he’s not careful, he’ll leave footsteps behind. Traces of his existence. Evidence.</p><p>He is careful though. He is always careful, as he has taught himself to be. As he has trained himself to be. He is the best there has ever been. No one greater has ever come before him. He is the pinnacle of their entire history and yet...</p><p>They degrade him with this task. With this chore.</p><p>Digging is not the hard part. His unnatural strength leaves no room for hesitance or disability. But, each shovel full of dirt leaves his arms shaking and his knees weak at the prospect of what lies beneath six feet of cold Gotham decay.</p><p>This place of ruin, this place of rot, this place of death. It is all something he will never know, never experience. Even the idea of one day coming to lay amongst the skeletons and festering corpses is unobtainable. </p><p>Immortal? No, not really. But he is the closest man has ever come.</p><p>For some reason, once he is well and truly in the hole he has dug for himself, he half expects a coffin to meet the tip of his shovel. He reminds himself though that this is an empty grave, filled only with ashes and long past memories of a life that was never his. It is what’s next to the hollow carcass that <em> they </em>want. </p><p>What <em> he </em>dreads.</p><p>It is a long night of digging that finally results in a body. He has seen many bodies before, created plenty of them splayed in their own halo of red, but to see the hollowed face of the one who is destined to kill him, destined to take his mantle and his only path of life.</p><p>The thought burns him, but even this resentment does not sway his loyalty. The body is stiff and cold, but just so, he cradles it in his arms. He has no regrets about his choices in life. About his many years of existing and ending other’s existence. There has always been a hierarchy set in place, borders and lines that cannot be crossed. Standards that must never be broken.</p><p>The world claimed to be black and white, but here, in this graveyard full of hopeless forget-me-nots and woes of regret, there might be some gray residing in his great-grandson.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, I had a fairly difficult time deciding how people would process their grief, and this was the outcome. I am actually quite happy with how Tim and Damian's characters came out. Quick note however: they are both processing their grief, and thus may say things they don't entirely mean. When Tim says he "whole-heartedly believes (Dick) deserved that punch in the face.", he isn't saying that with malice- more out of misplaced anger and sadness. (personally, I do not believe Dick deserved that, as he didn't really have a choice into dying and joining Spyral)</p><p>Also! I had some songs in mind when trying to get into Tim and Damian's heads. If you would like a better feel into their emotions, here you go- <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NyY7wnGIlTQ">Tim's song</a>  and  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XaKr98ktoxU">Damian's song</a> .  I strongly recommend you listen to the lyrics closely!</p><p>Lastly, wow, thank you so much for the positive responses on that first chapter! I was so blown away by all of your kindness, and I intend to reply to each review! Thank you for sticking around for this long note :)</p><p>Please, let me know what you thought!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Family Lens: Part I- The Unraveling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> I wish I could have seen the signs.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Because I could not stop Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and Immortality.” - Emily Dickinson </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b> <em>2 years and 5 months before the funeral</em> </b>
</p>
<hr/><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“Hey, Duke, you doing anything right now?”</p><p>“Dude, it’s three a.m. I <em> was </em>sleeping.”</p><p>“Oh, right, sorry to bother.”</p><p>“You know what, yeah, it’s fine. Do you need something?”</p><p>“Nah, it’s all good. I can call someone else.”</p><p>“No, come on, just ask. I’m already up.”</p><p>“You’re sure?”</p><p>“God, Dick, just tell me or I’m hanging up if you keep stalling.”</p><p>“Okay, okay. Can you come over to my apartment?”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I’m pretty sure I’ve got a concussion. Just need someone to watch me so I don’t, you know, convulse and die in my sleep.”</p><p>“Alright... fine,  I’m on my way. Should take me about 20 minutes; I’m at my cousin’s place tonight.”</p><p>“Thanks, Duke. Might need help with a couple patch jobs too, if you don’t mind.”</p><p>“If I’m going to babysit <em> and </em>stitch you up, you owe me at least two pizzas and an explanation.”</p><p>“That’s fair. See you soon.”</p><p>“Yeah, don’t die before I get there.”</p><p>“I’ll try my best not to.”</p><p>The call ends, and Duke scrubs his face tiredly. It’s really not unusual to be woken up in the <em> extremely </em>early hours of the morning, but this was his night off. Sleep was a blessing, and right now, he wasn’t getting it and that meant he was going to be groggy the next day. And when he was groggy, he had a hard time paying attention to things, and when that happened, he would slip up or forget about something or the other. Which was not good in his line of work.</p><p>Conclusion: Dick better be bleeding out on his couch when he got to his apartment or else he was going to do something.</p><p>Duke’s not sure exactly what he’d do, but oh boy, would he definitely do something.</p><p>The drive feels longer than 20 minutes, traffic abundant even at the godforsaken hour of three in the morning. Although Gotham is almost more known for its nightlife rather than its Dark Knight, Bludhaven gives it a run for its money with the amount of homeless, hookers, and who knows what else lurking under lampposts and in between alleyways. Duke has a hard time comprehending exactly why Dick loves the city so much, but then again, anyone who associated with Batman was hard to understand in general.</p><p>Eventually, he’s not really sure how, Duke finds a place to park that doesn’t look completely shady and liable for car theft, and walks the half block to Dick’s apartment complex. It’s one of those semi-secluded areas, sheltered away from the larger portions of the city and instead inhabited by the people who want to stay out of trouble. Mostly, at least. People keep their business to themselves, and if they see something that's suspicious… well, it’s not their problem. Maybe that’s why Dick likes Bludhaven; people know where not to stick their noses.</p><p>There’s no security besides a lone manager that looks half asleep, the dull glow of a smartphone illuminating his face. He doesn’t look up as Duke passes by, opting for the stairs instead of the rickety and possibly broken elevator, and merely grumbles when the game he’s playing dings unhappily. </p><p>Another thing Duke will never understand is why Dick chooses to live in such a dumpy area. He gets it. Sort of. His day job doesn’t exactly pay well, no matter how many criminals he legally puts into jail, and his night job requires secrecy and at least some sort of privacy. But, here’s what doesn’t connect. Dick Grayson is the legal <em> ward, </em> no, scratch that, now legal <em> son </em>of Bruce freaking billionaire Wayne. Surely there’s a trust fund for him to dip his fingers into every now and again, right? </p><p>Hell, Duke hasn’t even been working with the man for that long, but he’s already got a sizable sum dedicated exclusively to him and his needs, whether that be Signal or just to treat himself to a steak dinner. Spending someone else's money doesn’t always feel right, per say, but it's not like Duke isn’t going to take advantage of not worrying about where his rent money is going to come from. Not when he’s got other things to stress over.</p><p>Example A: Dick Grayson calling him over at three freaking a.m for a patch job for unknown injuries.</p><p>Duke inwardly groans at the thought, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to get any semblance of sleep for the rest of the night. Morning. Whatever. He’s not saying that he’d prefer sleep over helping out one of his associates, partners, (brothers?), but he’s not going to deny it either. He’s not usually the <em> guy </em>to call. He doesn’t usually do late night calls and surveillance while someone else is injured. Sure, he’s capable, but there’s just something missing that doesn’t make him the first guy to think of when you’re injured.</p><p>Obviously, something’s up. Duke’s not dumb, and of course he has questions. So, on top of an explanation for the injuries, he’s going to make it a point to inquire about why Dick called <em> him. </em></p><p>He knocks on apartment door 43, waits for a few seconds, and then lets himself in with the spare key underneath the potted plant. It’s not original, nor is it exactly the most advanced security system, but it’s better than Dick hiding it under the obnoxious, comic sans font <em> Welcome </em>mat with a smiley face next to it; a gift from Jason last year, who fully expected Dick to use it. </p><p>So, of course he did.</p><p>“Dick?” he calls out, shuffling off his coat and placing his shoes next to the misshapen pile of mud covered boots and converse. “I told you not to die before I got here.”</p><p>There’s some muffled sighing, possible a wheeze, before, “Sorry, Duke, couldn’t help it. The devil was especially tempting tonight. You ever seen him dance in the moonlight? Breathtaking, truly.”</p><p>“Har har. Clearly you’re not as injured as I was expecting.”</p><p>“More or less,” Dick admits, finally coming around the corner to meet Duke by the door. “Mostly stitched everything I could reach, medicated a bit, took a shower.”</p><p>“So why, exactly, am I here then? Not that I’m not grateful you thought to call, but come on. You couldn’t think of a better time to get your ass whooped?”</p><p>Dick chuckles, grin sliding around easily as he motions for Duke to follow him into the kitchen. “Well, I’m better, if that’s what you’re asking, but still concussed. And, like I said, still in need of help with a patch job. There’s a couple scratches on my back I couldn’t reach, and I need help popping my shoulder back in.”</p><p>Now that they’re in better lighting, Duke can finally see the extent of the ‘ass whooping’ and he whistles at the sight. Dick is marred with all kinds of bruises, a couple purple boot shaped prints and others large blotches of angry red. What’s more, the scratches he mentioned absolutely litter his torso and arms, more than a few deep and messily stitched back together. He’s also heavily limping, Duke observes, his left foot bandaged up to his calf. Duke is sure there’s more, but the flimsy t-shirt and boxer briefs Dick wears hide the rest. </p><p>“While this isn’t the<em> ‘Help me, I’m bleeding out on my couch’ </em>scenario I had envisioned, this looks pretty bad,” Duke says, eyeing the older man as he pours himself some water out of the tap. “What happened? Did you run into a gang?”</p><p>Dick grimaces at that, placing down his glass and motioning for Duke to follow him again, this time to the bathroom. “Something like that.”</p><p>Duke rolls his eyes a bit, the dramatics of the ‘Bat Family’, or whatever they are, never ceasing to blow him away. “Well, that was vague.”</p><p>Dick says nothing as he strips himself of his shirt, taking out an emergency kit and handing it to Duke. A bit irritated at the lack of response, Duke merely sighs as he gets to work on disinfecting and wiping the criss crosses and slashes decorating Dick’s upper back and shoulder blades.</p><p>“So,” Duke starts again after a few minutes, “You’re just not going to say anything? No explanation or reason for all of this?”</p><p>“Sorry,” Dick sighs, rubbing his face with his working hand. “It’s… it’s been a long night. Just trying to process some things.”</p><p>“I get that,” Duke says, wincing in sympathy as Dick hisses at the pull of the needle. “I do, but you gotta give me something to work with. Maybe I can help. Maybe not.”</p><p>Dick goes silent again, and Duke resigns himself to continuing to work on the mess that is bloodied towels and colorful bruises. Finally, he’s done stitching and moves onto the shoulder. Dick wordlessly holds his arm out, the movement stiff and stilted, and Duke wonders to himself, <em> Why am I here? What am I even doing? </em></p><p>“I don’t know,” Dick sighs, and Duke straightens with embarrassment. He didn’t mean to say that aloud. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Dick repeats again, lowering his arm and popping it into place himself. “I’m sorry to have called you all the way over here. I could’ve taken care of this myself, done it a thousand times beforehand, but I just… needed someone here tonight.”</p><p>Duke sits himself down against the tub, watching the older man breathe deeply with a troubled face. Duke’s not exactly used to this side of Dick Grayson. Sure, they’ve all been down before, seen some of their lowest points. But this- this was new.</p><p>“You didn’t want to be alone,” Duke summarizes. </p><p>“Yeah,” Dick agrees, folding his hands together . “I didn’t want to be alone.”</p><p>“So, why not call someone else? I don’t want to be rude or anything, but, let’s be honest. We aren’t really close. At least, we don’t share a bond like you do with…. Everyone else.”</p><p>“That’s on me. I want to get closer to you, not just as partners, but as friends, Duke. I do. I really do.”</p><p>“So, again, why call me? You’ve got other options, quite a few actually, that are more capable of understanding what you need. I’m just not the guy for that, and I don’t think calling me before the sun’s even up to stitch you is the best way to bond.”</p><p>“No, it’s not,” Dick agrees, and there’s something missing from the way he says it. Something inherently part of his speech pattern that’s just not there. It makes his words sound… wrong.</p><p>Not Dick Grayson.</p><p>“You said you took some meds earlier,” Duke derails, uncomfortable with his revelation. “Did you eat anything after?”</p><p>Dick nods, rolling his newly relocated shoulder around a bit. “Yeah, yeah, I did. There’s some chinese in the fridge if you want some. Maybe some cereal in the cabinet.”</p><p>“I’m good,” Duke says easily enough, unwilling to betray his nervousness. “I’m here to babysit <em> you. </em>Not the other way around, Blue.”</p><p>Finally, something seems to click, and Dick smiles, getting up and offering a hand to Duke. “Somehow you always seem to be the older one in these situations.”</p><p>“If eleven years your junior is the new senior, I’ll take it.”</p><p>The long night/early morning Dick’s had seems to catch up with him as he yawns, eyes watering. Duke decides to believe the tears are from sleep deprivation and not the mental and or physical pain the older man is in. Without much effort, Duke guides him to the living room couch, watching in fascination as the man immediately curls up and reaches for the obnoxiously fluffy blanket draped across the back.</p><p>“This is where the babysitting comes in,” Dick murmurs, eyes not quite yet closing as he stares at the ceiling. “Concussions are cousins with seizures around here. Never thought New Jersey would stoop down with Alabama, but here we are.”</p><p>“Here we are,” Duke acknowledges, despite the analogy not making an inkling of sense. </p><p>He sits down on the lone kitchen chair, reaching for his phone as he waits for Dick to fall asleep. The lights are dim, and the one above the fridge flickers occasionally, but overall it’s not horrible. It’s after perhaps 30 minutes of scrolling that Duke realizes that Dick never fell asleep. He’s gone through enough training to recognize the sound of someone sleeping, distinguish between nightmares and mindless dreams, and so on and so forth. But Dick is wide awake, deep breathes through the nose obvious and the exhales enough to make Duke’s chest shudder. And then,</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>Duke looks up, squinting as he struggles to hear the faint words.</p><p>“I shouldn’t have called you over here tonight. It was a mistake.”</p><p>Duke opens his mouth to object, because really, he was just getting the dramatic bug everyone else seemed to get when wearing the Bat symbol. He stops though when Dick takes another deep breath.</p><p>“You were right, with what you said before. We aren’t that close. Sometimes I wish we were, but we aren’t. And I… I’m grateful we aren’t. At least not right now.</p><p>We don’t have the same bond that I share with the others. With Damian, Tim, Jason, <em> them. </em> They’re my little brothers. I take care of them. It’s… It’s my job as the oldest. I can’t let them see me like this. I can’t let them down like that.”</p><p>Duke wants to say something, add anything to this sudden confession, but finds himself tongue tied. He doesn’t think he’s ready to hear any of this. Any of this weird and depressing admission of Dick’s.</p><p>“I know they’ve seen worse, seen <em> me </em> worse, I know that. But I just… tonight I can’t. Tonight they can’t be here. They know me. They <em> know </em>me, and that’s terrifying sometimes because I have to wonder what they see. What they see and what they think when I’m like this. </p><p>It had to be you, Duke, because you don’t know me. Not yet, at least. And I hate that this is how you will know me, what you’ll think of whenever we talk, but it had to be you.</p><p>I can’t be alone tonight, but I couldn’t ask anyone else to be here. I’m sorry.”</p><p>Duke presses his lips together, that strange feeling of discomfort rushing back in waves. This doesn’t make sense. Dick… Dick isn’t supposed to be like this, right? This can’t be the same man who laughs at criminals with guns trained on him, or does quadruple backflips off of skyscrapers for the fun of it. This can’t be the same guy he’s looked up to since he was twelve, always in awe of his charisma and dazzling smile. </p><p>“I…” he starts, the word strangled and stuck, because how do you respond to that? How do you tell one of your idols that it kind of feels sucky to not be close enough with them to hide this other side? It’s awful, it’s truly awful, that Duke feels like he’s been let in on a secret he was never supposed to know. Never supposed to <em> want </em>to know. He wants to be a brother, wants so badly to be a part of that bond the originals share, but now… Now he understands. He just can’t be. He has to be estranged.</p><p>It has to be him.</p><p>“I think you should get some rest, Dick. I’ll be here when you wake up.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>
  <b> <em>1 week later</em> </b>
</p><p>It’s 5:37 in the afternoon when his phone rings. He doesn’t bother checking the caller ID, so when he picks up and hears Dick’s voice on the other end, he freezes.</p><p>“Hello? Duke? You there, dude?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah, I’m here,” he says, shaking himself out of his temporary paralysis. They haven’t spoken since that night, and ever since, Duke has been actively avoiding thinking about their last conversation. “What’s up?”</p><p>“I just wanted to apologize for what happened. I was more or less out of it when you came over, and I know some of the things I said weren’t exactly… coherent.”</p><p>And Duke has to remind himself that Dick did have a concussion, bad enough to the point where he had to go puke in the bathroom a few hours later, but the discomfort still comes back. </p><p>“I want to make it up to you,” Dick continues, as if moving on from that entire incident was the easiest thing to do. “I also owe you two pizzas. Are you free around 7? I’d love to take you to that new pizza joint that opened near-”</p><p>“Ah, listen man,” Duke interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t. Not tonight.”</p><p>“Oh,” Dick sounds surprised. “That’s fine. No problem. Is there another time that would work better?”</p><p>“I’m… I’m going to be pretty busy. I don’t know when. Sorry.”</p><p>“Yeah, no worries. No problem. Is there anything I can do to help you out? What are you working on?”</p><p>“Oh, it’s nothing,” Duke sighs, fiddling with the strings on his hoodie. “I’ve got it covered. I, uh, I have to go now.”</p><p>“Alrighty,” Dick says, voice soft yet still cheery. “I’ll see you sometime, then.”</p><p>“Yeah, sure- bye, Dick.”</p><p>“Bye!”</p><p>Duke groans into his hands when the call ends. That was awkward and very painful. Is this okay? Is this okay for him to do? He doesn’t necessarily <em> want </em>to avoid Dick but…. It was made plain where he was situated as of right now. He’s the estranged one. The not quite stranger but not quite brother either. At least, not ‘brother’ enough for Dick to want to protect him like he does the others. </p><p>But shouldn’t he feel lucky Dick wants to confide in him? That Dick thinks he’s mature enough to handle the shittier aspects of his life? Duke questions if he even wants to be the mature one anymore. He’s still 18. Hardly an adult. It’s two hours later when he gets interrupted again.</p><p>“Yo, Duke!” his cousin calls out from the living room.</p><p>“What?” he yells back.</p><p>“Did you order pizza?”</p><p>“Uhhh no?” Duke responds, walking out to where his cousin stands. He’s holding two large pizza boxes and a liter of Coke, obviously having just been delivered. “Where’d those come from?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” his cousin says, placing the boxes down on the counter. “They were just delivered. Check the receipt. See who ordered it.”</p><p>Doing so, Duke feels his mouth quirk upwards the slightest bit at the note left on the bottom. <em> Thanks for babysitting when I got my ass handed to me. See you around, Boss. </em></p><p>“So who’s it from?”</p><p>“A friend.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b> <em>1 year and 8 months before the funeral</em> </b>
</p>
<hr/><p>“I’m dying.”</p><p>“No, you’re not.”</p><p>“Yes, I am.”</p><p>“Just because you’ve decided to be dramatic does not mean I have to indulge in it.”</p><p>“How can you say that, Tim? Clearly, I am laying on my deathbed and you’ve come to visit your ailing brother.”</p><p>“Actually, I’m up here to work, unlike you.”</p><p>“But I have a stomach ache.”</p><p>“But consider this- <em> I’m working. </em>”</p><p>“Come now, Master Timothy,” Alfred says, walking into the living room with a tray of what is most likely tea. “Your brother has decided to visit us for some comfort. It is rare we ever get to see him outside of nightly activities.”</p><p>“Alfie,” Dick whines, scrunching up his face in an attempt at puppy eyes, “You know I’ve been busy. I love coming to the Manor to see you guys- I just don’t have a lot of time.”</p><p>“Yes, I completely understand. Much too little time to ring the Manor or grocery shop for yourself.”</p><p>“Tim,” Dick pleads, accepting the steaming tea cup Alfred hands to him, “You believe me, right? One workaholic to another?”</p><p>Tim deigns to respond, concentrating heavily on the laptop resting on his thighs. In truth, Tim had been a bit concerned when he’d been informed Dick was on his way to the Manor. Dick hadn’t been by in months, the only time anyone ever saw him being on patrol or when someone pinged him for information. So, when Dick called and told Alfred he wasn’t feeling so well, that set off a few alarm bells.</p><p>However, it seemed his initial concern was for not. It was plain Dick was hiding something with his dramatics, but whatever it was, Tim was much too swamped to deal with whatever was going on in Dick’s world. He would admit though that Dick did look sick. He was sweaty, face slightly pale, and had been complaining of a dual headache and stomachache since his arrival a day ago.</p><p>“I believe you, Wing,” Steph called from across the room, waltzing in with a bag of chips. </p><p>“Thank you,” Dick sighs, sinking into the couch further. “My one sympathizer in this whole family.”</p><p>“On the contrary, I never said I sympathized. Only that I believed you’ve been busy. Which, duh. We’ve all been busy.”</p><p>And it’s true. All of them have been busy as of late. Recently, there has been a surge in crime and no shining cause for it. Every night, almost all of them go out for patrol and for the past three weeks, have had nothing to show for it. The thugs they interrogate know next to nothing, which is typical, and there doesn’t seem to be a connection to anything at all. Wayne Enterprises recently took a hit too, their vice president for the business department retiring early and leaving a huge gap to fill.</p><p>So, Tim was left to handle some of the mess left behind. Typical.</p><p>“I really don’t understand why you aren’t in bed if you’re so sick,” Tim sighs, shutting his laptop. It was useless trying to get any work done with all the noise. “You might be contagious for all we know.”</p><p>“Is it a crime for me to be near my loved ones?” Dick laments, staring into his brew.</p><p>Tim rolls his eyes, settling in his chair as Steph turns on the TV from where she claims her spot next to Dick’s feet. There’s silence for a few minutes as they mindlessly scroll through channels, flicking through soap operas, reality shows, and a couple action movies. None of them really watch TV much, don’t have the time for it, but there’s something hypnotic about staring at a flashing screen for hours on end. Not exactly soothing per say, but definitely entrancing. </p><p>They’re half way through a random episode of Law and Order when Dick abruptly stands up and excuses himself out of the room. Steph simply shrugs, declaring she’s not going to pause for his potty break, as Tim begins to doze off. It’s another twenty minutes before Dick reappears, looking worse for wear and the slightest bit more pale.</p><p>He slowly shuffles back over to his spot on the couch, stiffly lying down and dragging a blanket over his torso. Steph eyes him, only a few inches away from her spot on the couch.</p><p>“They found the perp,” she says, turning back to the bright screen. “Some dude twice removed that liked the sister’s daughter.”</p><p>Dick has his eyes closed but nods, trying his best to smile.</p><p>Steph wouldn’t make the claim that she’s the most sensitive person in the family. She comes off as abrasive sometimes, perhaps a bit too goofy on patrol, and maybe once in a while much too relaxed on serious cases. She doesn’t really hold herself accountable for those though. You have to find some sort of humor in the third decaying body of the week, or you’d go insane. </p><p>That, or you could always bottle up your emotions until they explode in a violent and beautiful display.</p><p>Back to the point, Steph wouldn’t make the claim that she’s the most sensitive person, but she does know how to recognize emotional turmoil when she sees it. She’s insensitive, not emotionally incompetent. There’s a difference, see? So, when Dick stays quiet, doesn’t make any comment on the garishness of the lady’s makeup, and doesn’t laugh at the fruitless attempt at courting, Steph knows something is up.</p><p>“How’s Bludhaven been?” she tries, lowering the volume to not disturb the now sleeping Tim.</p><p>He takes a moment to respond, but Dick replies, “Not too bad actually. Maybe all the crime went over to Gotham for a change.”</p><p>“So what’ve you been doing with all this extra free time that’s been oh so pleasantly dropped onto your lap?”</p><p>Dick shrugs, grimacing. “Mostly paperwork. A couple more shifts at the BPD.”</p><p>And there, right there, is where Steph confirms that something isn’t quite right. His sentences are short. Bare details. Strict like Times New Roman. Normally, Dick talks like every part of his life is a story, flowery words and descriptions popping up to make even a boring night eating pizza sound like the ultimate vacation (which it really is). If she were to ask any other day, Dick would probably try to ramble about the latest gossip with interns he’s heard, or about how a poorly timed joke almost got him clobbered in the head.</p><p>She decides to give him another chance to disprove her worries. “Is that all? No epic stories about the latest ice cream flavor you tried?”</p><p>“Nope, that’s all I’ve got.”</p><p>Steph sighs, thinking, <em> Well, it was bound to happen at some point. Guess I get to play therapist now. </em></p><p>She turns, draping her legs across Dick’s and waits for him to open his eyes to look at her. When he finally does, she raises an eyebrow and waits some more. They play a game of widening eyes and gesturing brow movements before he finally cracks.</p><p>“Not that this isn’t interesting, but, uh, what?”</p><p>“You tell me, Wing.”</p><p>“Um,” he hesitates, still confused. “Is this a guessing game? Are we playing charades?”</p><p>Steph shrugs, still staring. Dick’s confusion mounts as the silence continues, only interrupted by Tim’s soft snores and the TV’s strange noises as the bride says yes to the dress. Minutes go by, and Steph gives up, blowing a strand of hair out of her face in frustration. “I thought you were supposed to be the emotionally intelligent one.”</p><p>“Wait, what?”</p><p>“Are you just constipated today? Is that it?”</p><p>“Um, a little I guess- but wait, what the hell are you talking about?”</p><p>“Well, I was referring to the fact that you aren’t matching my level of vibe today, but seriously? You’re actually constipated? Like, tummy trouble constipated? Is that why you went MIA for a whole episode?”</p><p>“Wait, wait, back up. I’m not matching your <em> vibe? </em>”</p><p>“Now that I think about it, you have been pretty off kilter ever since Alfred gave you that tea. You think he slipped you a laxative?”</p><p>“What, no, Alfred doesn’t put drugs into my tea.”</p><p>Steph simply smiles in response.</p><p>“Alfred does not drug my tea, Steph.”</p><p>“Whatever you say, Wing.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean? Is my tea usually drugged?”</p><p>“Considering Tim picked up his no sleep habits from <em> someone </em>in the family, I’d say it’s fair to assume that there is a correlation between how fast you fall asleep when Alfred gives you tea compared to when you aren’t given any.”</p><p>“And you know this how?”</p><p>“Who do you think he gets the drugs from?”</p><p>There is stunned quiet for a few moments before Steph snorts loudly. “I’m kidding, Wing. God, if I were a drug lord, you wouldn’t see me mooching off the only billionaire I know. I’d be my own billionaire, but I’d still probably crash here.”</p><p>“Steph, your mind truly amazes me sometimes.”</p><p>“A genius, I know. You don’t have to point out the obvious. So, what do you think of that dress? I think the V-line is a bit much.”</p><p>“I don’t know, I kind of like it. Accentuates her figure nicely.”</p><p>“Right, I forgot the disco era. Sometimes I feel really fortunate I wasn’t around to see that in person.”</p><p>“You <em> should </em>feel unfortunate. My sense of fashion is impeccable.”</p><p>“Sure. Just like your sense of taste for mint-chocolate ice cream.”</p><p>“I’ll have you know that mint-chocolate is one of the-”</p><p>After a few more episodes and half-hearted debates, Dick falls asleep, his snores matching the youngest in the room. His face seems to have regained some color, though the frown marring his brow doesn’t dissipate. Though tired as well, Steph relaxes fully into the arm of the couch, watching the boys sleep. </p><p>Sometimes, she wishes she knew what went on in their lives to make them so weary. At the same time, she’d rather not know. There were consequences in being the firsts. She considered herself lucky to have not risked the trial run.</p><p>Soft foot-falls alert her, Alfred reappearing with yet another tea set. This time however, he places it in front of Steph, smiling down at her kindly as he hands her a cup.</p><p>“Thank you, Miss Stephanie,” he says softly, gazing at the sleeping face of one of his many grandchildren.</p><p>“Sure thing,” she says. “But, uh, for what?”</p><p>“Master Richard has been growing more tired as of late. It is quite hard for him to rest, his lifestyle and mindset making it difficult, as I imagine it has for some time. It was nice to hear him speak freely. He enjoys talking to you very much.”</p><p>“Oh,” is all she can think to say, slightly embarrassed. “It’s, um, easy to talk to him. Sometimes.”</p><p>“It would be a great help if you could continue talking to him every once in a while. I believe your voice and humor does wonders to ease his stress.”</p><p>“Yeah, I can do that. He’s one of the only people here who doesn’t constantly have a stick up their ass. Oh, sorry, Alfred. No offense.”</p><p>“None taken. In some ways, you remind me of him when he was younger. Thank you again, Miss Stephanie.”</p><p>“Of course, Alfred. What’re semi-related adopted siblings for?”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b> <em>2 months and 14 days later</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>1 year and 6 months before the funeral</em> </b>
</p>
<hr/><p>It’s a hot day. Not even the good kind of hot where you can sit in your car that’s been left out of the shade and soak up the warmth from the seats for a minute before the seatbelt gets too warm. It’s just sweaty hot. Sweaty and sticky.</p><p>And that’s gross.</p><p>Nothing ever really happens on hot days. Everyone’s energy just seems to get zapped right out of them, and just like the everyone mentioned, Steph also has no energy to do anything. The AC unit is on full blast and she’s alone for the time being, her mom off to go to some errand or the other. Although staring at a rattling and rather janky AC unit isn’t quite how she imagined she’d spend her day, it’s never time wasted nonetheless. Time is never wasted if you enjoy what you’re doing. That’s what she tells herself at least.</p><p>Nothing happens for a long time. That is until her phone begins to vibrate and the classic tune of ‘The Man on the Flying Trapeze’ plays out. She listens to the old song for a few rings, humming a bit as she takes her time getting around to answering. In all reality, it is quite a disturbing song to wish death upon your crush’s crush, but that’s the 1920s for you.</p><p>Finally, she picks up her phone and answers with, “This is the fiery gates of Hell, how can I help you?”</p><p>“Steph?”</p><p>His voice sounds wrecked, borderline raspy, and the shakiness doesn’t sound good either. The phone is rattling too, most likely the cause of trembling hands, and it instantly puts her on the alert. She checks the clock, confused when she sees it’s only two in the afternoon. That means something bad must’ve gone down unrelated to patrol, which is almost always worse.</p><p>“Dick? What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Can you… Can you just talk for a little while?”</p><p>“What do you mean? Did something happen?”</p><p>“Please, Steph. It can be about anything, anything at all. I-I just need… please talk to me. Please talk to me.”</p><p>“O-Okay, Dick. I can do that, yeah, no problem. Um, oh! Did you hear about the Knights game yesterday? Wild, I tell you. As usual, our team sucked ass, but overall it wasn’t as horrible as it could’ve been. 39 did a nice layup, I think, and then some guy in the stands threw popcorn at the ref for a bad call.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah, it was hilarious, you should’ve seen the guys face when he got escorted out by security. Oh, I finally got around to trying out that new ice cream place you mentioned. The drive was horribly long though! Traffic was absolute trash, but what’s new, right?”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“Anyway, I also got that mint-chocolate chip flavor you rave about and I give it a score of six out of ten. I still think that the flavor of toothpaste shouldn’t be anywhere near something as good as ice cream, but it was alright for being an abomination.”</p><p>She’s expecting a chuckle of some sort, but there’s just silence on the other end.</p><p>“S-So, I also went over to a K-BBQ place Cass recommended. It wasn’t half bad, but it was super awkward going by myself. The food was good though, and I managed to set half the little stove thingy on fire. I rewarded myself with some <em> real </em>ice cream afterwards. Dairy Queen shall forever hold my heart as my go to diabetes retreat. By the way, what’s up with that? How come fast food restaurants have some of the best ice cream out there, but places like the Cheesecake Factory don’t serve it? And why is the McDonald’s ice cream machine always out of service? You know, I have a theory about it…”</p><p>It’s nearing the twenty minute mark when Steph realizes that she’s run out of things to say. That frightens her for some reason, and that growing feeling of anxiety for not having anything else to talk about eats away at her as seconds tick by and her mouth stays shut. The other end of the line is quiet too, Dick having hardly said a word throughout the entire call making her nervous as well. This was unusual.</p><p>Scratch that, this was highly weird and strange. Has Dick ever done this before? Has he ever <em> just </em>called her to hear her talk? She doesn’t think anyone has ever called her to hear her rant; most of the time people ask her to shut up.</p><p>“Dick?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>His voice is still very quiet, hardly above a whisper, but it doesn’t sound nearly as panicked as it did before. That was good, right?</p><p>“Is there anything else I can do? Do you want me to call anyone for you?”</p><p>“No,” he murmurs. “There’s no one left to call.”</p><p>“You’re scaring me a little,” Steph admits. “Are you okay? Do I… Do I need to come get you?”</p><p>“I’m okay.”</p><p>“Are you sure? I’m here to help, but, Dick, if-”</p><p>“I’m okay, Steph. I’m okay now.”</p><p>She badly wants to believe him. Desperately wants to believe that Dick Grayson is okay and not currently doing or thinking about doing something stupid. This is Nightwing after all. Protector of both Gotham and Bludhaven citizens. Flashy and brilliant crime fighter, who throws puns instead of weapons at the faces of criminals. Charismatic and handsome, both by day and at night. This sad and broken sounding man on the other side of the phone couldn’t be the same guy. He just couldn’t be.</p><p>So, she believes him. It’s her only option. The only option that doesn’t fracture the image she has of him. It’s just a bad day. He was just having a bad day and wanted someone to talk to. He liked talking to people. He was a people person. Yeah, this made sense. Just a bad day at work. He was fine. Nightwing was fine. Everything was fine.</p><p>“Okay, Dick. I trust you.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>He hangs up before she can get another word in, and the only noise that’s left is the AC.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b> <em>1 year and 2 months before the funeral</em> </b>
</p>
<hr/><p>*You have --5-- new voice messages and --8-- missed calls.*</p><p>
  <em> “Hey there! Sorry I couldn’t answer your call- I’m most likely in space, so I wouldn’t be able to hear you anyway, haha! Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can! Love ya!-- At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you can hang up, or press one for more options.” *Beep* </em>
</p><p>“Hey, Donna. It’s me. Dick. Um, I… I’m in a rough patch right now. I miss you. A lot. I wish you were here. Things aren’t the same anymore and I- god, I miss you so much. I need you, Donna. I need you here. I need you to tell me what to do. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, or if, if anything is good. If I’m good. I wish you were here. I love you.”</p><p>
  <em> “Hey there! Sorry I couldn’t answer your call- I’m most likely in space, so I wouldn’t be able to hear you anyway, haha! Leave me a--” </em>
</p><p>“It’s me again, Donna. I-I really don’t know what I’m doing anymore. What can I do? What can I do? I need you to tell me what I need to do. Please, please, just tell me. If I don’t do anything, I’m just going to get worse and worse and worse. And if-if I do something, there’s a chance I’ll just make it even more worse than it already is and I-- I can’t do that. I can’t do that to them. They need me here. They need me. Donna, please, please, I need you. I need you so fucking bad.”</p><p>
  <em> “Hey there! Sorry I couldn’t answer your call-” </em>
</p><p>“Help me, help me, Donna. God, what do I do? There isn’t a way out of this, there isn’t a way out, I’m stuck and no matter what I decide to do, it’s going to hurt them, please Donna, please, tell me what to do! I miss you so fucking much, I need you here. Why aren’t you here? I need you! Can’t you understand that? Please, please, please, please, Donna, please, tell me. What am I supposed to do? Why aren’t you here?”</p><p>
  <em> “Hey there! Sorry I couldn’t answer your call- I’m most likely in space, so I wouldn’t be able to hear you anyway, haha! Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can! Love ya!” </em>
</p><p>“I love you too, Donna. I love you so much. I miss you everyday. It’s like there’s a missing piece inside of me, and everything just keeps chipping away at that emptiness. I’m becoming a void, Donna. Open and bleeding and even more empty every time I find something to fill it with. I’m terrified, Donna. I’m scared. I haven’t been this scared since I was a child, and god- I wish you were here. I wish- sometimes I wish I was with you instead. I’ve only got two options after all. On some level it has to be my fault; maybe I neglected the history too much. Maybe I was too careless. I’ve been doing this for too many years, Donna. It was bound to catch up to me eventually, right? Right?”</p><p>
  <em> “Hey there!” </em>
</p><p>“I don’t know why I keep calling you. You’re never going to pick up. I think I just like pretending. This is all I have left. You know, sometimes I like to call and just listen to your voice. What’s left of it in this voice message you made. If I try hard enough, it’s almost as if you’re sitting right next to me and that this is normal. That what I’m doing, what I’m thinking of doing, is normal. I miss you and… I think I’m dying, Donna. I’m dying. I don’t want to die.</p><p>I’m not ready.”</p><p>
  <em> “Hey there! Sorry I couldn’t answer your call- I’m most likely in space, so I wouldn’t be able to hear you anyway, haha! Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can! Love ya!-- At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you can hang up, or press one for more options. *Beep*  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Hey there! Sorry I couldn’t answer your call- I’m most likely in space, so I wouldn’t be able to hear you anyway, haha! Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can! Love ya!-- At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you can hang up, or press one for more options”. *Beep*  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Hey there! Sorry I couldn’t answer your call- I’m most likely in space, so I wouldn’t be able to hear you anyway, haha! Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can! Love ya!-- At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you can hang up, or press one for more options.” *Beep* </em>
</p><p>“Please don’t let me die.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Whew, a lot happened in this chapter- did you catch it all? So, this is essentially through some of the family "lens"/perspective of what happened before the funeral. Don't worry, it's only part one!</p><p>Also, wow, wow, wow! Thank you so much for the absolutely amazing response to this fic!! Your comments make my day, y'all have no idea how much they mean to me! I read and try to respond to each one, so thank you for all the support! Please tell me your thoughts, I love to hear them!</p><p>(BTW I've aged up the characters: Dick and Barbara-29, Duke-18, Stephanie-20, Jason and Cass-22, Tim-19, Damian-13, Bruce-49, Alfred-Immortal)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Family Lens: Part II- The Last Year</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/>
<p>
  <b> <em>1 year before the funeral</em> </b>
</p><hr/>
<p>“It’s good to see you, Barbara. How’s your father been?”</p>
<p>“He’s been doing well; getting his campaign ready and all that puts a bit more stress on him, but he’s doing well.”</p>
<p>“That’s good to hear. How are you feeling with his run so far?”</p>
<p>“I’m… I think hopeful is the right word. My father has been working with GCPD for so long, and the entire city loves him. The Mayor too. I think he’ll have a really good chance.”</p>
<p>“Are you nervous at all?”</p>
<p>“I mean, yeah, I’m worried about some things.”</p>
<p>“Can you tell me what’s been worrying you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just the usual stresses that come with having a political campaign and being more exposed than normal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy and grateful that this opportunity for him has come up, he’s been talking about making real changes to the PD’s structure for years, but it’s… scary.”</p>
<p>“I understand. It must feel very revealing, in a way, to have this spotlight be placed upon you both. Have you discussed any of these fears with him? He may share similar feelings.”</p>
<p>“A bit. He’s just been so busy and I’ve been swamped with work too, so it’s hard to find the time to just talk to him these days.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I can imagine so. Has work been overwhelming as of late? In our last session, you shared that you felt submerged in your duties.”</p>
<p>“Right now? I feel swamped, but I think that’s just because I slacked off for a week. Overall though? No, not really. Work has become… enjoyable. I feel like I’m making a difference again.”</p>
<p>“That’s wonderful to hear, Barbara. Truly it’s a good thing to love what you do. And what of your associates?”</p>
<p>“Honestly, I think they’re doing really well too. I’m not sure what it is, but we’ve been meeting more frequently and it’s almost as if a wall between us has been removed. I feel more open with them, and it feels like they’re being more open with me as well.”</p>
<p>“Have you had any phantom pains as of late?”</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>“No. No, I haven’t. Sometimes I’ll stare at the mirror too long and just look at the scar, and maybe there’ll be a slight… tingle. It hasn’t been painful though. I’ve been doing those exercises you gave me, and they’ve helped somewhat. Can I be honest?”</p>
<p>“You know you don’t have to ask me that.”</p>
<p>“I know, I know, but Claire, I… I think I’m ready to be on my own now. I haven’t scheduled another appointment and I don’t think I will. These sessions have helped me, <em> you </em>have helped me, and for the first time in years, I’m…”</p>
<p>“Barbara, my job isn’t to keep you here with me. My job is to help you be you. The true and authentic you. Half of that is getting you out of here; to realize you don’t need me anymore.”</p>
<p>“I know, and I feel somewhat <em> normal </em>again, as normal as I can be, but I just worry that it won’t be enough. That if I stop coming here, all of my progress, everything we’ve done together, will just revert back. That I’ll be a mess.”</p>
<p>“Barbara, do you trust me?”</p>
<p>“Of course I do. It’s not me doubting your work, it’s just-”</p>
<p>“No, you misunderstand. I’m <em> happy </em>for you, Barbara. Beyond excited. My job is to get you out of here. To force you to try things that might be scary. If leaving this little office space is the next step, then by all means, I’ll be the one to open the door for you. Just as you trust me, so do I trust you. You’ve improved so much over this year alone. You’ve accomplished and done so many things that the person who came into my office for the first time two years ago would be unrecognizable to the remarkable woman who sits in front of me today.”</p>
<p>“I’m… thank you, Claire. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss this.”</p>
<p>“You’re going to keep doing wonderful things, Barbara. If you ever need anything, even just a quick chat, I’m only one phone call away.”</p>
<p>“Claire?”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“Do you really think I’ll make it out there on my own?”</p>
<p>“You already have.”</p><hr/>
<p>
  <b> <em>11 months before the funeral</em> </b>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <em>Hey, anything going on for the next week?</em>
</p>
<p>Jason frowns as he stares at his phone. It was Dick. Texting him. At two in the afternoon.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em> no </em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Three seconds later.</p>
<p>
  <em>Great! I need some help in Bludhaven- I’m taking a night job and need someone to look after the dogs while I’m out</em>
</p>
<p>Translation: Dick is on a stake out or going undercover and needs someone to cover the civilian sector while he’s out.</p>
<p>
  <b> <em>ask someone else. i’m busy.</em> </b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Cassie also said she’d help </em>
</p>
<p>
  <b> <em>still busy</em> </b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Please? I’ll order pizza </em>
</p>
<p>The offer is tempting. Pizza does sound good and Jason hates spending money, but he also has responsibilities.</p>
<p>
  <b> <em>i have my own dogs to take care of.</em> </b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Pizza and ice-cream? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <b> <em>for a week? no</em> </b>
</p>
<p>He’s being difficult on purpose. Though the offer sounds nice, pizza for a week does not, and though Cass is one of the only ones he genuinely enjoys spending time with, again, an entire week in Bludhaven does not sound ideal. He needs Dick to make the deal sweeter if he wants Jason to bite. He knows how to bargain.</p>
<p>
  <em> What if I do your paperwork for the week? </em>
</p>
<p>Bingo.</p>
<p>
  <b> <em>fine. i like olives on my pizza and there better be garlic bread</em> </b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Thanks Jaybird! </em>
</p>
<p>Jason sighs, throwing his phone across the coach as he slumps over. Just when he thought he was going to get some rest, he just had to be nice. He just had to be nice for once and not completely ignore the eldest. Bludhaven isn’t too horrible, he supposed. It couldn’t be since it only ever has one person taking care of it.</p>
<p>Sure, it was another shitpile in the cow field, but it was at least a fresh one not covered in mold and festering with flies. Like Gotham. Like Crime Alley. It makes Jason smile a bit at his metaphor, the likening of shit to Gotham the purest analogy he can think of. Yeah, Bludhaven would be fine compared to the stink here.</p>
<p>It was, in fact, not fine.</p>
<p>Later that night when he made his way over, he realized he’d been left with no instructions. No warnings. No hints. No codes. No nothing to help navigate the maze of back-roads and alleys, and nothing about what areas to be wary of or what to look for. Cass had been given nothing either, her mask shielding her lack of knowledge as well.</p>
<p>“Well, shit.”</p>
<p>Black Bat reprimands Red Hood, <em> Language </em>stern in her hands. He merely rolls his eyes, sending back the bird and chuckling to himself when she does the same.</p>
<p>“So much for language,” he huffs without any real bite, turning back around to survey the city from their vantage point. “Bludhaven is a fuck ton bigger than I last remembered.”</p>
<p>“Divide?” Black Bat asks, appearing at his side. “Meet after?”</p>
<p>He nods, seeing no issue with it. “Sure, keep the comms on.”</p>
<p>For the rest of the night, they meet more crime, muggings, burglaries, thugs, drug dealings, and break up more gang fights than they have in months in Gotham. They knew Gotham was bad, and they knew Bludhaven was bad, but all this for one person to do? </p>
<p>“Just a bad night, maybe?” Black Bat attempts to comfort once they’ve met up again. </p>
<p>“Bad night my ass,” Red Hood curses, taking off his helmet to wipe at the sweat currently pouring down his face. “That was fucking ridiculous.”</p>
<p>It’s nearing two in the morning, exactly twelve hours since Dick texted them both for the favor. </p>
<p>“This shit isn’t worth some pizza and paperwork,” Jason mutters to himself. “What’d he promise you?” he asks louder, directing the question to Cass.</p>
<p>She shrugs her shoulders up and down. “Nothing. Wanted to help.”</p>
<p>“Good for you,” Jason drawls, rolling his shoulders. “You have the key?”</p>
<p>A set of keys appears from within Black Bat’s utility belt, and Jason flashes a crude smile.</p>
<p>“Well, let’s go fuck up the place then.”</p>
<p>As part of the deal, Dick had let Jason and Cass stay in one of his only safe-houses. He rarely ever used it, only for emergencies, and it was also one of the few things Dick had that was fully paid for by Bruce. Furnished with a couch, a bed, full kitchen, TV setup, full bathroom with an actual jacuzzi, and everything else one could want. It was more a glorified hotel than anything else, but who were they to pass up the offer?</p>
<p>They arrive to find three pizzas waiting for them, Jason pleased to see Dick had remembered the olives and garlic bread, and is only mildly disgusted at the fact that Cass had ordered a pizza with anchovies. Go figure. Someone in the family had to have worse taste than pineapple on pizza.</p>
<p>They play rock-paper-scissors for the bed, Cass winning, and settle in for the night.</p>
<p>Rinse and repeat for the next six days, Cass winning the bed every time, and on the last day of their babysitting, they have Bludhaven down. They’ve figured out a route to scout through, which areas to check first and which areas to leave alone. Black Bat had also begun to memorize the BPD patrol schedules and which car number was on duty at what times. </p>
<p>They leave Bludhaven, both feeling strangely satisfied with themselves. </p>
<p>“Divided and conquered,” Cass congratulates, punching Jason in the shoulder as good-bye.</p>
<p>They’ve left the safehouse more or less a mess, didn’t bother washing the sheets either, but Cass left behind a note of thanks. </p>
<p>“Bludhaven is our bitch now,” Jason agrees, glowering a bit as Cass casually dodges his own good-bye punch. “Won’t miss it though.”</p><hr/>
<p>
  <b> <em>9 months before the funeral</em> </b>
</p><hr/>
<p>“Ayyy, Timmy!”</p>
<p>Tim sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What is it, Dick?”</p>
<p>“I have a favor to cash in.”</p>
<p>“A favor?” Tim questions, suspicious. Dick’s favors tended to be intel gathering or last minute filing. They were never fun, but, as he reminds himself, a deal’s a deal. </p>
<p>“I’m heading out of the city for a couple weeks. Do you think you could watch over Bludhaven for me in the meantime?”</p>
<p>Tim almost whistles. Well, he would have if he couldn’t already feel the headache building.</p>
<p>“A couple weeks,” he says sarcastically. “By that, do you mean exactly 14 days or an extended two months?”</p>
<p>“14 days,” Dick responds solemnly. “I promise. I’ve already asked Duke and Steph for some help as well, and they said they could do shifts. Is that something that you could work with?”</p>
<p>“Well, this is all kind of sudden, don’t you think? I mean, you aren’t giving me much time to actually plan anything. I hardly even know Bludhaven.”</p>
<p>There’s silence on the phone for a beat. </p>
<p>“Please, Tim? It’ll be the last thing I ask for the rest of the year. Scout’s honor.”</p>
<p>He can practically see Dick going through the motions of crossing his heart and holding up the scout salute, and he <em> has </em>to roll his eyes. It’s practically a given at this point.</p>
<p>“Fine,” he sighs. “As long as the others hold up their end.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Tim! I owe you one!”</p>
<p>Dick hangs up and Tim thinks, <em> That’s not how ‘cashing in a favor’ works. </em></p>
<p>It takes him a minute, but he sets up a groupchat with Steph and Duke (briefly he marvels at the fact that they didn’t have one before) and sends out a google form for them to fill out on which particular shifts they each would take. Steph immediately sends the old man emoji and then proceeds to compare him to a middle aged clerk who’s only idea of fun was making spreadsheets.</p>
<p>Duke takes a while longer to respond, he isn’t on his phone much, and easily fills out the dates and times he can do. Steph also does so with prompting, a promise of an arm wrestle Tim knows he’ll lose, and the rest is history. </p>
<p>They arrive in Bludhaven at their agreed upon times. Occasionally, it’ll be a two person night and they’ll divide the city. Four or five times, it was all three of them, and Tim can honestly say it was a lot of fun working with them. Bludhaven was so different from Gotham. It wasn’t any cleaner, and there certainly wasn’t any less crime, but something about it made one feel…</p>
<p>Free. Unrestricted. Like it was a fresh start.</p>
<p>Tim guesses that’s why Dick chose Bludhaven in the first place.</p>
<p>“Yo, RR,” Steph’s voice crackles into the comms. “There’s a mugging that Signal spotted. You’re closer and I already said nose-goes. So, seeing as I am looking at Signal right now, and we both have our lovely fingers gracing our noses, it would seem that your nose- rather <em> beak </em>- is the only one left so that would mean-”</p>
<p>“Okay, I got it,” Red Robin sighs, already making his way over to the alleyway. “You’re long winded for no reason, Spoiler. No wonder you get out of breath so easily.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know about that,” Signal chimes in, observing as Red Robin easily drop kicks the mugger. “It might be the weight of carrying the title of funniest member that’s got her breathing so hard.”</p>
<p>“Damn straight!” Spoiler shouts, the sound of a solid and crisp high-five echoing in the comms and startling a few pigeons.</p>
<p>Red Robin returns victorious, brandishing coupons for free slushies at the 7/11 (“It was a reward,” Tim says smugly, pleased with himself as Steph oggles his prize, “For helping that poor grandma. You know, seeing as <em> I </em> am the lovely hero that graced that mugger's face and <em> you two </em> did not, that would mean that I get to spend these coupons.” “Like heck you are! Gimme one of those!” “Hey, what! Stop! Let go!” “Guys, you’ll tear them! Stop fighting and we’ll all just go togeth-” <em> riiipppppp </em>)</p>
<p>Pride still intact, but coupons sadly not, all three vigilantes proudly walk into the nearest 7/11, ask for tape, shamelessly tape back together the shredded free slushies, and claim their hard-earned bounty. </p>
<p>Somehow, Steph manages to snap a picture of them all drinking their slushies over the bright lights of Bludhaven. She sends it to the group chat and Tim saves it with the thought of printing it out later. It was nice. Those two weeks in Bludhaven had been nice.</p>
<p>If favors were going to be like this, Tim wouldn’t mind Dick cashing in a few more.</p><hr/>
<p>
  <b> <em>5 months before the funeral</em> </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b> <em>Christmas Eve</em> </b>
</p><hr/>
<p>“Hello?”</p>
<p>“Richard,” Damian somewhat growls. It’s endearing in a weird animalistic way. “Where are you?”</p>
<p>“Oh,” he says sheepishly, “right. I forgot to tell you. I won’t be able to make it to dinner tonight.”</p>
<p>“Why?” Damian won’t admit it, but he’d been looking forward to seeing Richard. It had been a long time since their last patrol together, and lately, Nightwing had been on duty outside of both Gotham and Bludhaven more frequently. Meaning the likelihood of “accidentally” bumping into him during patrol had decreased significantly. </p>
<p>“I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” Richard promises, but Damian still feels disappointed. </p>
<p>“Why not tonight?” he asks, and some part of him feels childish for being so insistent, but the absences were turning more into patterns than he liked.</p>
<p>“Well,” and now Richard sounds excited, “I was preparing something. For you.”</p>
<p>“For me?”</p>
<p>“Go downstairs and check the car.”</p>
<p>Immediately Damian bounds out of his room, the elation of the unknown making his feet move faster. Downstairs meant the Batcave. Obviously the car meant the Batmobile. Stupid, childish names of course, but that’s what they were dubbed by the first Robin. It was only right to continue to use that particular terminology. It was honoring the Robin legacy after all.</p>
<p>Richard is silent throughout Damian’s run, but he is smiling. Beaming practically.</p>
<p>When he reaches the Batmobile, Damian sees a note taped onto the windshield. When he reports his findings, Richard simply says, “Open it,” and hangs up.</p>
<p>A little shocked at the abrupt end, Damian pockets his phone and flips the note to read the back. He squints at it: <em> Check drawer 27B. </em></p>
<p>Short and concise. Damian grins. It was going to be a fun night. </p>
<p>Finding 27B takes longer than he thought, the storage unit large and frankly messy. He finds it though and marvels slightly when he opens the drawer to find a suit. It’s a Robin suit, but clearly with some new attachments and upgrades. It was certainly made for the cold, long sleeves and pants fitted with heating pads in the cloth. Elbow and shin guards adorned their respective sides and a new pair of combat boots were there too, the usual green but with a black R symbol on the sides.</p>
<p>Damian kind of liked it.</p>
<p>In one of the numerous pockets, Damian also finds another note and comm. <em> Suit up and put in the comm unit.  </em></p>
<p>As soon as he’s done so, a cheery voice greets him. “Oracle checking in. Robin, are you ready?”</p>
<p>He smirks. “Clearly.”</p>
<p>“Then get on and start riding to the address I’ve pinged you.”</p>
<p>“Get on what? I’m not allowed to drive the Batmobile.”</p>
<p>“Right, right. Hmmm, then check the south-port. There might be something to help you out there.”</p>
<p>This game of clue, though a bit troublesome, is curious. Is this some sort of test Richard has laid out for him? The new suit would indicate some sort of task he would need to do, and running about the Cave to find certain items hints at an ultimate goal. He’s not sure what’s going on, but he’ll be efficient. Always efficient. </p>
<p>Quickly moving towards the south-port, Damian passes the Batmobile and heads directly into the darker parts of the cave. With all the technology and equipment, it was easy to forget they were actually underground in a cavity of stone, the bats easy enough to ignore and befriend. </p>
<p>He skids to a halt when he sees an object covered by a green tarp and topped with a garishly obnoxious red bow. </p>
<p>“Oracle,” he mutters, “What is <em> this </em>?”</p>
<p>“See for yourself, short-stack.”</p>
<p>He rolls his eyes at the insult (a “nickname” as Richard would call it) and proceeds to remove the bow and pull off the tarp. Red and green were <em> Robin </em>colors, but the holiday makes it seem as if his uniform was meant to be festive. He hoped Richard had planned the color scheme to suit the mantle rather than the greedy festivities. </p>
<p>When he’s fully removed the tarp, casting it aside, Damian can only stare in shock.</p>
<p>“What do you think?” Richard’s voice now pipes in, wary but hopeful.</p>
<p>Damian is standing in front of an electric motorcycle, modified and painted to cater to his size and preferences. The model looks old, perhaps early 2000’s, but it’s been updated to look sleek. Numerous switches, handles, clips, and other things Damian isn’t sure what to identify as come equipped with the bike. The entire thing has been painted black, but a streak of green covers the sides, a golden R in the center. A red helmet sits neatly on the seat, the R emblem embellished on it as well.</p>
<p>“It was one of my first bikes,” Richard says as Damian runs a hand along the sides. “I splurged on it when I first got to Bludhaven, but never ended up using it. I’ve updated a lot of the gadgets and what-nots on it, the engine has also been fixed, and I’ve hardwired a computer into it so you can communicate with others and receive coordinates, instructions, and other things on it.”</p>
<p>Damian is still quiet and Richard takes it as disappointment. </p>
<p>“If you don’t like it, it’s no big deal,” he rambles. “It’s yours, but we can always scrap it or use the parts for something else. Bruce approved it, don’t worry, but if you’re still uncomfortable with it, I can take it back, and I don’t know, donate it or-”</p>
<p>“It’s nice, Richard,” Damian reassures, in awe of the work put into restoring such a sentiment of the past. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“You ready to test it out?” Oracle asks, excitement now tainting her voice as well.</p>
<p>The sound of a revving engine is her only response.</p>
<p>“Wait,” Richard buts in, “You do know how to drive a motorcycle, right?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been driving since I was six,” Damian says smugly, flicking the visor closed and releasing the break, plunging forward and out of one of the back entrances.</p>
<p>It glides beautifully across the asphalt, and Damian can feel his heart beat incessantly as he lets out a whoop of elation, wind tearing at his arms. He picks up speed as he enters Gotham, passing by startled civilians and waving at police vehicles as he blows by them. The emblem is enough to ward off a police chase, and knowing this, Robin picks up the pace further, weaving in and out of cars.</p>
<p>Even a dingy city like Gotham clings to Christmas, lights and trees decorated and displayed on every corner and front door. The air is crisp and cold, heavy clouds overhead foreshadowing a snow fall. Even though the roads are icy, the tires are solid and grip the pavement easily.</p>
<p>It is breathtaking.</p>
<p>“I’ve sent that location from earlier to your bike,” Oracle calls. “You should see a display in the window of your helmet. Follow the highlighted path.”</p>
<p>“Affirmative,” Robin responds back, grinning as he bears left and takes a sharp turn. </p>
<p>The speed at which he’s going, the smooth glide of the tires, and the wind rushing past him makes it feel like he’s flying. He’s grown wings and taken flight, and with it, Damian thinks he’s found a new kind of freedom. </p>
<p>He arrives at the specified location ten minutes later, rolling to a stop as he surveys the area. Oracle has led him to a park, mostly secluded save for a few trees, a bench, and one misshapen snowman. With the sun hidden behind dark clouds, the park is barely illuminated, the only light source being a lamp post off to the right. </p>
<p>Taking off his helmet, Damian feels a private sort of joy as he watches his breath come out in puffs of misty white. The suit is warm and the gloves he’s wearing keep his fingers from freezing. Though he is sure his nose is bright red from the cold, Damian can’t help but feel satisfied. It was a strange sort of feeling in his chest, one of warmth and possibly content.</p>
<p>“Robin to Oracle.”</p>
<p>Nothing.</p>
<p>“I’ve arrived at the location.”</p>
<p>Still nothing. He taps his comm twice, hoping to elicit some sort of response, but there is still silence on the other end. He frowns.</p>
<p>“Robin to Oracle. What do I do now?”</p>
<p>“Well, to start, you could turn around,” a voice calls from behind.</p>
<p>Damian whips around to find Nightwing standing behind him. He’s wearing a beanie and scarf pulled up to his nose, but the mask contorts in a way that shows he’s smiling.</p>
<p>“Rich- Nightwing!” Robin exclaims. “You’re here! Why are you here?” he adds more skeptically. “You said you weren’t going to be at dinner.”</p>
<p>Nightwing shrugs a bit, and it is only then does Robin notice he’s carrying something. “I’m not, but I never said where I would be exactly.”</p>
<p>Damian raises an eyebrow at the poor explanation, but before he can question it further, Richard pulls out a thermos and two cups. “I figured if I couldn’t meet you there, maybe you could meet me out here?”</p>
<p>“I don’t like hot chocolate,” Robin reminds him in an attempt at staying annoyed. “Agent A is the only one that knows how to make it properly.”</p>
<p>“Then it’s a good thing I brought apple cider,” Nightwing says with a wink, motioning for Robin to follow him to the lone bench.</p>
<p>He does so, nodding in appreciation as Nightwing also produces a blanket for them to sit on. He accepts the steaming cup, wrapping his hands around the warmth, and stares out over the empty park. They sit in silence for a few moments, both appeased with just sipping from their respective drinks.</p>
<p>“So,” Richard starts, interrupting the quiet, “Did you like the bike?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Damian responds, turning away in embarrassment. “It was reconstructed well.”</p>
<p>“That’s good. I’m… I’m really glad you like it, Robin.”</p>
<p>He feels a blush creep up his neck, the sincerity and honest relief in Richard’s voice confusing. Of course he liked the bike. Why wouldn’t he? It was well done, the paint job adequate, and it rode properly. It was a good bike. Fantastic, really.</p>
<p>“Most of what you do is acceptable,” Damian admits, voice quiet. “It is difficult to critique.”</p>
<p>Nightwing sniffs, and Robin isn’t sure if it rises from the cold or from some inane emotion, but he scoots just the slightest bit closer. Seeing this, Richard slings an arm over Damian’s smaller shoulders, pulling him to his side. He doesn’t coo or make some joke about their closeness, and Damian is grateful for that.</p>
<p>“Happy holidays, Dami,” he whispers.</p>
<p>“Happy holidays, Richard.”</p><hr/>
<p>
  <b> <em>1 week before the funeral</em> </b>
</p><hr/>
<p>“Hello? This is Clark Kent speaking.”</p>
<p>“Hey, Clark!”</p>
<p>“Dick!” Clark exclaims. “It’s good to hear from you! How’ve you been?”</p>
<p>“Pretty good, big man,” Dick says smoothly, his heart beat even enough for Clark to tell it isn’t a lie. A relief, actually. “How have you been? Saw you got hitched recently, eh?”</p>
<p>Clark blushes a bit. “Yeah, Lois and I got married about a month ago. We were sad you couldn’t come, we would’ve loved to have you there.”</p>
<p>“You know how it is,” Dick sighs. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to make it. I got caught up in some things and- yeah, sorry, Clark. I really wanted to be there.”</p>
<p>“Gosh, Dick,” the man of steel says hurriedly, “Please don’t feel guilty about that! I know how busy you are. Trust me, no hard feelings.”</p>
<p>“Scouts honor?” Dick teases.</p>
<p>“Scouts honor,” Clark assures.</p>
<p>They chuckle a bit, their shared boy-scout, goody-two-shoes reputation making the best inside joke.</p>
<p>“I’m really happy for you,” Dick says, almost a tad bit too wistfully. “You deserve happiness, Uncle Clark. Lois is a good woman and could probably beat both our asses with a single article. You… You did good finding her.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Clark sighs, “I’m a lucky man. I don’t know how I ended up with such a wonderful life. My family gets bigger everyday it seems. Dick, can I ask something?”</p>
<p>“Anything.”</p>
<p>“If Lois and I ever decide to have kids, would it be alright if we named a boy after you?”</p>
<p>Stunned silence. </p>
<p>Clark can hear Dick’s heart rate increase dramatically, and for a moment, he thinks he’s made a mistake. Was that weird, to ask that? It’s just that, Dick was the first kid he ever met that made him believe in the future. Some scrawny kid with a heart of gold, and more, tagging alongside the ever stoic Batman; something about that image made him feel like there was more to life than the death he saw everyday. That the future he’s sure he won’t live long enough to see will be in good hands. That he won’t have to worry about laying to rest. That there might, one day, be peace.</p>
<p>“If that’s not okay,” Clark rushes, “We won't do it. It’s just, well I’ve known you since you were nine and you’ve become such an important part of my life, but if that makes you uncomfortable in any way, it-”</p>
<p>“No,” Dick says, voice cracking with emotion. “No, no, that’s… that’s fantastic, Clark. It would… That would be a huge honor, you’ve got no idea.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t comment on the suspicious sound of tears, nor the sniffling he hears.</p>
<p>“We were thinking of Richard Jonathan Kent. Has a nice ring to it, right?”</p>
<p>Dick laughs a little. “A bit of a mouth full, but sure. Maybe stick with RJ Kent?”</p>
<p>“Lois kind of liked Ric for short.”</p>
<p>“That’s a pass for me- makes it sound like the kid is some tough guy who chose a street name.”</p>
<p>“Don’t tell her this, but I kind of agree. I like RJ more.”</p>
<p>“I’ll keep my mouth shut. Scouts honor, obviously.”</p>
<p>A beat of amiable silence. Then, “You’re going to make a great uncle, Dick.”</p>
<p>Dick says nothing in response, but Clark can hear his heartbeat pick up again. He’s never been good with what a fast heart rate means, emotion wise at least, so he can only hope it means Dick is excited or perhaps even nervous about the prospect. God, he hopes it’s the former. Dick really would make a fantastic uncle; Clark can’t imagine anyone else who would suit the role better.</p>
<p>“Hey, listen,” Dick says, somewhat subdued. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”</p>
<p>“Anything,” Clark replies automatically.</p>
<p>“Could you keep a look out for Gotham for the next couple of weeks? I know you’ve got Metropolis and the Watchtower to keep you busy, but I’m going away soon and it’d make me feel better if someone could keep an eye out for Bruce while I’m gone.”</p>
<p>“Of course I’ll do that. I heard that the crime rate has been going up lately. Would you like me to do the same for Bludhaven?”</p>
<p>“Actually,” Dick hesitates, “Bludhaven is fine right now. I’ve been able to secure some of the major factions, so you don’t need to worry about us. Gotham has hit a rough patch, and I’m not going to be around to help out, you know? It’d just make me feel a lot better if you could keep an eye out if they need help.”</p>
<p>“I understand and of course I’ll watch out for Bruce. I know he doesn’t usually like me in Gotham, but I’ll keep my distance.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Dick sighs, as if a heavy weight had just been lifted off of his shoulders. “That makes me feel a lot better. Don’t get too busy while I’m gone, Uncle Clark. I can handle a nephew, but more than one and I might-”</p>
<p>“Yep, yep, got it,” Clark stammers, face going red. He hadn’t even thought past the one kid, but now that Dick mentions it, he’s always wanted a big family. Baby steps though. They <em> just </em>got married. “I’ll see you around, Dick.”</p>
<p>“Bye, Clark.”</p>
<p>Dick hangs up and Clark slowly puts down his phone. Lois stares at him from across the coffee table, putting down her newspaper and taking a deliberate bite of toast as she raises her eyebrows expectantly. </p>
<p>“So?” she asks through a mouthful of bread.</p>
<p>“We’re approved,” Clark smiles, face lighting up as his wife (oh god, his <em> wife</em>, what a wonderful word) beams up at him. “Richard it is.”</p><hr/>
<p>
  <b> <em>4 days before the funeral</em> </b>
</p><hr/>
<p>It’s not his favorite place to be, but Bruce will never deny that the Watchtower has a magnificent view. There will always be something calming about how infinitesimal life is. How small and yet utterly huge Earth is compared to the rest of the solar system and beyond. How their tiny, insignificant problems that seem to swallow them whole are nothing in reality. </p>
<p>Problems like dealing with a controlling Vice President and a complaining Business Department. </p>
<p>As of right now, the WE web-conference has been going on for the last hour and Bruce is ready to just shut down the transmission. He could claim that his connection is being interrupted, or that his computer has a virus, but he makes a fool of himself enough already. He doesn’t actually enjoy reading all those gossip magazines about his life, and he certainly doesn’t need <em> “Boomer” </em>to add to the list of names people, namely his children, have given him over the years.</p>
<p>The view of Earth gives him little remission of the headache slowly growing as some of the Heads talk over one another in an attempt to “argue” their position on whether or not the complaints should be taken seriously. Bruce, though he won’t say it aloud, agrees with the workers in the Business Department. He’s seen first hand how tactile the VP is, and though it’s good to know what’s going on in your department, it was nearing inappropriate levels of inspection, going so far as to do random and without warning drawer, desk, file, and computer checks. Once, he saw Jeremiah, the VP, demand a woman’s purse for inspection because he believed she might be taking home company data.</p>
<p>Needless to say, Bruce tries his best to give everyone a say in the matter. He runs a fair and sturdy company and it would be an abuse of his corporate power to make all the decisions himself.</p>
<p><em> It would make things a lot faster though, </em>Bruce thinks, his pleasant smile fracturing a bit as the argument grows increasingly heated. </p>
<p>It’s in the next hour of the web-conference that Bruce feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. Tempted as he is to take it out and check, he knows that it would be unwise to do so. If it was the League asking for something, then it would ring his pager. Additionally, if one of his kids needed something, they would know to message him with a different number or just have his phone set to a ringtone. It doesn't ring again and Bruce forgets about it.</p>
<p>The meeting eventually resolves, the conclusion of giving a warning to the VP and nothing else resulting in the near three our web-conference. Needing something to distract himself, Bruce discards his dress shirt and pants and exchanges it for the cowl.</p>
<p>The fact that he’s in the Watchtower is no coincidence or just for the pretty view. He’s here on League business, monitoring other parts of the world for what he hopes might be a clue as to why there have been so many spikes in criminal activity. It hasn’t just been in Gotham but all over North America and Europe. So far, Cambridge has seen an unprecedented amount of drug cartels overrunning its city, though the massive amounts have led to many of them being caught. It’s a pattern that’s fairly noticeable, the same thing occurring in New York and Metropolis. It’s especially concerning as Metropolis is relatively crime free, many organizations refusing to establish there knowing it would be shut down before it could start thanks to Superman.</p>
<p>Bruce envies that ability. </p>
<p>He’s checking over a recent PD report from Cambridge when he feels a pocket shift in his utility belt, a slight rattling to accompany the vibrations. He knows it’s the same pocket he placed his work phone in earlier, and considers answering it even in the cowl. His fingers twitch against the keyboard he’s typing on, hesitation at being distracted from the report making him slow. However, he’s saved from making the decision when a transmission comes through on the screen in front of him.</p>
<p>Quickly accepting it, Batman directs Alpha Squad B to a potential cult they’ve been investigating for the last month. By the time he’s sufficiently guided them through the absolute maze of underground streets and other obstacles, he’s ready to re-read the report and begin categorizing it as separate or connected to the cartels.</p>
<p>Just as he’s pulled up the same file, he feels the shift again. It’s not unusual to receive so many calls in one day, but he feels uneasy. It’s a gut feeling, an instinct, and though he’s never one to trust a knee-jerk reaction, he can’t help but feel something is inherently wrong. That he shouldn’t ignore the call again.</p>
<p>He’s fingering the button in his utility belt, the anticipation suddenly mounting in his stomach, as he pulls out the sleek phone from his pocket and squints at the caller ID. It’s not registered as any contact on his phone, and he doesn’t immediately recognize the area code. He doesn’t typically receive scam calls, his company blocking most, and he’s made sure his number isn’t available anywhere so others can randomly call him. </p>
<p>He watches as the unknown number disappears, another <em> Missed Call </em>notification popping up on his screen. His stomach does a small flip when he sees it’s the same number that called him twice earlier, each about an hour and a half apart. In total, three missed calls and now one voicemail. </p>
<p>Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, Bruce gets up from his station, quickly notifying the League for someone to take over his monitor position in the Watchtower. Though his steps are measured and his face calm, he feels his heart rate increase exponentially as he finally recognizes the area code.</p>
<p>Bludhaven.</p>
<p>
  <em> Bludhaven. </em>
</p>
<p>Everything else washes away with the realization that it might’ve been Dick calling him. That Dick might’ve called him three times and he didn’t pick up. That Dick might be in danger or that he might’ve lost his phone. That he had no other choice but to call from an unknown number because he didn’t have access to his own. </p>
<p>Thousands of what if scenarios run through his mind as he hurries his way to the zeta tubes, a thousand more concerns and scary thoughts bombarding his mind. It’s about seven pm in Gotham. Dick would have gotten off his shift at the BPD around four. Dick doesn’t typically go out as Nightwing until eight. The first call came in around three, Gotham time. Then, an hour and a half later, the second call, and just now, four hours after the initial call, the third comes in along with a voicemail. </p>
<p>That’s a five hour time gap starting from the first call to the last. That would mean Dick was still at the BPD during the first and most likely leaving or at his apartment during the second. The third…. Bruce isn’t sure.</p>
<p>He zetas into New York City, an abandoned bridge overhead and a lifeless moor surrounding it. The Batmobile is on the other side of the bridge, and he swiftly maneuvers into the vehicle and begins driving to Gotham. The drive from NYC all the way to Gotham will take nearly two hours. Bruce grits his teeth at the idea. Even with back roads and blowing past speed limits, the best he’d be able to do is an hour. At least.</p>
<p>The tension in his body only mounts as he glances at the dash, the bright notification of <em> 3 Missed Calls </em> and <em> 1 Voicemail  </em> nailing him with guilt. He can’t bring himself to listen to the voicemail yet. He’s too frazzled. He might even be over-reacting. It’s a Bludhaven number, yes, but Bludhaven has a population nearing 900,000. That’s almost a million people with a Bludhaven area code. It could have been anyone calling. It doesn’t <em> have </em>to be Dick.</p>
<p><em> But Dick is the only one that would call, </em> a voice in the back of his head reminds him. <em> He’s the only one with this phone number that would call it. No one else has this number outside of some WE workers and family. There’s no one else it could be. </em></p>
<p><em> No, </em> another voice argues. <em> That’s not guaranteed. Your phone number has been leaked before. Some careless intern could have left a form out or taken a picture and sold the information to scammers.  </em></p>
<p>“Then why would they leave a voicemail?” Bruce mutters to himself, his tongue dry at the thought. “No one leaves voicemails.”</p>
<p>
  <em> No one except those that have urgent news. No one except those that need you. </em>
</p>
<p>Bruce wants to pull over and take a breath. His grip on the steering wheel is enough to leave indents, the gauntlets leaving marks on his wrists as they pinch and squeeze with the pressure. He can’t stop though. The pressure building in his skull is enough to make him wince, but he can’t stop. He can’t. </p>
<p>Before he even registers what he’s doing, he’s pressed play on the voicemail.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Hello.” </em>
</p>
<p>The first thing that Bruce realizes is that it’s not Dick. It’s a woman’s voice. His shoulders sag in relief, muscles unclenching in his arms as the sudden release of tension leaves him light headed. It’s not Dick. Thank god, it’s not Dick.</p>
<p>
  <em> “This is the Bludhaven Memorial Hospital.” </em>
</p>
<p>And just like that, Bruce feels everything come rushing back in as he feels his stomach convulse.</p>
<p>
  <em> “I am calling on behalf of Richard John Grayson. You are listed as his only available emergency contact.The situation is dire, so please come to the hospital as soon as possible. Again, it is Bludhaven Memorial Hospital.” </em>
</p>
<p>Time slows down. The imperceptible ticking and clicking of the engine becomes a roar, his heart beat thrumming furiously in a twisted rhythm of terror and pure, adrenaline filled, panic. There is nothing else but him and the impossibly long road ahead, a tunnel of only the headlights of the car to recognize the asphalt. Suddenly, he’s on fire. His hands are sweltering in his gauntlets and he thinks if he doesn’t take them off right then and there, he’ll come away with third degree burns.</p>
<p>It’s dangerous to pull your hands off the steering wheel at such high speeds. He’s taught each of his kids to never be distracted on the road, to always have both hands on the wheel, and under no circumstance, never <em> ever </em>pull out your phone.</p>
<p>He breaks all three of his rules in the span of two seconds. His gauntlets go flying into the passenger seat, his eyes are wild and roaming, and all he can think to do is grab his phone, his <em> work </em> phone, <em> Bruce Wayne’s </em>phone, and hit dial.</p>
<p>It rings only once.</p>
<p>“Hello?”</p>
<p>“Alfred,” and Bruce hardly recognizes his own voice. His mind is in a sea of confusion and horrible, horrible thoughts and conclusions and all he can think to say is, “Dick’s hurt.”</p>
<p>And this is the man who has raised him, who has become his surrogate father, and even in this panic, this swirl of whatever it is he’s lost himself in because right now he still feels like he’s on fire and the car is still loud and grating and there’s hardly anything else in the world other than the black, empty void of road in front of him, Bruce still looks to him for guidance. He’s nearing 50 and yet the urge for comfort from the old butler, his rock in all the world, is his first instinct. </p>
<p>It’s a two way street, of course, and just as Bruce knows Alfred, Alfred knows him.</p>
<p>“You are reaching alarming speeds, my boy,” Alfred says, his voice solid. “I suggest you slow down or pull over.”</p>
<p>“Dick’s <em> hurt. </em>”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know, but at the moment there is nothing to do but calm yourself. Put down the phone, son, and <em> slow down. </em>”</p>
<p>“Alfred-”</p>
<p>“Listen to how I breathe. Copy it. Put your hands on the steering wheel and breathe with me.”</p>
<p>Bruce has no other choice but to follow Alfred’s firm words, and even though the emblem on his chest feels like it’s suffocating him, Bruce allows his rib-cage to expand and deflate with each passing moment. It’s an eternity, or maybe it’s only a minute, but he doesn’t feel like he’s burning any longer. Both his hands are on the steering wheel, still tight enough to leave his fingers aching, but he’s in control again. </p>
<p>Slowly, the Batmobile grinds to a halt. </p>
<p>“Are you alright now?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” is all Bruce can manage. “It’s been nearly five hours.”</p>
<p>“Five hours, Master Bruce?”</p>
<p>“I got a call from the Bludhaven hospital five hours ago. They called two more times. I… I didn’t pick up.”</p>
<p>“And you believe that Master Dick is injured at this hospital?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I got a voicemail. It’s…. I think it’s bad this time, Alfred. I’m still over an hour away from the hospital and it’s already been <em> five hours.” </em></p>
<p>“I’m sure that Master Dick is alright-”</p>
<p>“No, they said it was dire. The situation was dire five hours ago and it’s still…. god, Alfred, I didn’t pick up. I didn’t pick up.”</p>
<p>The older man is silent for a few moments, and Bruce can feel the desperation and dread pooling into his stomach like lead. The crushing guilt that’s making his head feel light and the Batmobile that much smaller is making him dizzy. He can’t lose it right now. Not again. Dick <em>called. </em>Dick <em>needs </em>him. </p>
<p>“Are you fit enough to keep driving, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks abruptly.</p>
<p>He can only grunt in what he hopes is affirmation.</p>
<p>“I am sending you coordinates,” the butler explains. “I will rendezvous with you there. It won’t be a staggering time difference, but it will surely be shorter than the route you are currently on. I will also be providing you with some more appropriate clothing.”</p>
<p>His foot is off the break before he even looks at the rendezvous point, and the world is a blur again.</p>
<p>Twenty minutes pass and Bruce thinks he’s only just blinked before he sees the sleek black Bently pull onto the dusty back road. He’s already rid himself of his cowl and detached the cape, but he is reluctant to leave behind his utility belt. Whenever he’s stressed or working himself up, having something on hand to protect himself always makes him feel more… secure. Like he has two feet on the ground and not a body submerged in water.</p>
<p>When he pulls open the side door, belt in hand, Alfred merely glances at it before starting up the engine and driving off. Even though the road is relatively smooth, and the old butler has been driving far longer than most professional chauffeurs, Bruce struggles to button up his shirt, fingers suddenly too large and stiff to properly secure the too small clasps. The simple act is somehow unreasonably frustrating and he can feel heat building in the back of his eyes. Why is this so hard? Why can’t he do this? It’s just a dress shirt. It’s so simple, so easy, and all he has to do is follow the pattern, follow the obvious placement and direction of the buttons. Why is this so hard? </p>
<p>Why can’t he do anything right?</p>
<p>Bruce breathes out heavily through his nose, rubbing harshly at his eyes until he sees stars. He needs to calm down. Reevaluate. Reason with himself. Be sensible. What does he know? What has he learned? Start with the basics.</p><ol>
<li>He received the first call from the hospital at 2:55 pm, Gotham time. The hospital called twice more after, only leaving a voicemail after the third.</li>
<li>Each call was almost an hour and a half apart.</li>
<li>The situation is dire. Dick has been in the hospital for at least five hours; possibly more.</li>
<li>Dick had him listed as his only emergency contact. </li>
<li>Dick was hurt. Severely. Badly. Direly. Enough to be hospitalized for more than just a patch-job.</li>
<li>That’s it.</li>
</ol>
<p>The short list does little to ease him. He knows so little. There are so many variables, factors, situations, circumstances, <em> everything </em> he doesn’t know. For instance, why were the times in between calls so lengthy? Why only leave a voicemail on the latest call? What was the cause of Dick’s hospitalization? Why was Bruce, of all people, his <em> only </em> emergency contact? How did Dick get hurt? How badly? To what extent? Why a hospital and not Dr.Thompskins? Does that mean Dick was forced to the hospital? Why?</p>
<p>Why did it take so long for him to pick up the damn phone?</p>
<p>“We’re arriving in ten minutes, sir,” Alfred calls from the front. “I suggest you finish getting ready.”</p>
<p>Bruce blinks, his chest aching like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. It takes him a moment, but slowly the sounds of city life surround him. It’s 8:30 pm in Bludhaven, and the night life has only just begun to creep out. Flashy signs, drunk drivers, the homeless, trash, addicts, police sirens; it’s just like Gotham. The sister city. </p>
<p>Somehow, Bruce manages to secure the last few buttons, barely able to stop his hands from shaking. Is he nervous? No, that’s not it. Bruce is terrified. Completely terrified. Even as the Bentley pulls up the main entrance of the hospital, he can hardly find it within himself to remain calm. His face is frozen in a perpetual look of strain, lips squeezed together in an effort to slow down his racing heart. He barely hears Alfred tell him he’s going to park, and all he can focus on is the white lights and sliding doors.</p>
<p>Immediately as he enters, Bruce can feel his stomach churn like he’s about to throw up. Hospitals were never good. Are never good. The smell of antiseptic and steel are stark and everywhere, and even though it was just the main entrance, Bruce could almost convince himself that he was surrounded by the sick and dying. That he was next to them all and all these injuries were just another consequence of his inaction.</p>
<p>There’s a line at the reception desk, three people in front of him, all waiting to be “checked in” or see someone. It is difficult to remain still or insist that the matter at hand was more important than whatever trifle thing they were doing, but Bruce reminds himself where he is and who he is. Bruce Wayne helps people, not hinders them. He just… he just needs to be patient. Dick was fine. Dick was okay. He was being taken care of. </p>
<p>But Dick is hurt. He’s hurt. <em> Been </em> hurt. God, why didn’t he answer the first time? Why didn’t he just take a second to actually <em> think </em>? Dick is hurt and he’s-</p>
<p>“Can I help you, sir?”</p>
<p>He has to shake himself away from the overwhelming thoughts, fixing his eyes on the woman in front of him. The voice is familiar, lower in register but soothing at the same time. It’s the same woman from the voicemail. The same one who called three times to receive no answer.</p>
<p>“Please,” Bruce says, jaw tight from having clenched his teeth so much. “I-I got a call earlier. I’m Bruce Wayne, the emergency contact for Richard Grayson.”</p>
<p>The woman nods, her name tag reading Cecelia, and begins flipping through a few pages on a clipboard. </p>
<p>“Can I see your ID, please?”</p>
<p>He hands it over wordlessly, watching as she hums when verification comes through. However, her eyes dart up to his, the slightest bit anxious, before looking back down again at her clipboard. Hastily, she grabs the reception phone and dials, waiting but a few seconds before quietly saying, “Dr.Hammot, please go to Room 42. A ‘Bruce Wayne’ will be there for Richard Grayson.”</p>
<p>She hangs up, fiddling with a few pages again, before looking towards him. “Dr.Hammot is going to inform you about everything in Room 42. It’s on the first floor, directly behind me and to the left. If you need help, ask any of our staff and they’ll help guide you.”</p>
<p>She doesn’t make direct eye contact the entire time, sliding back his ID without so much as a glance. Bruce notes that her fingers are slightly shaky, not much, but enough that he can tell with the way her hand twitches as it retreats from the counter. </p>
<p>He pockets the card, staring ahead at the direction she had motioned to. Room 42. Dr.Hammot. Inform. Guide him. Staff.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Ms.Cecelia,” he says, hurriedly walking away and towards the hallway. </p>
<p>She simply nods, attending to the next person in line, but not before letting her face dip into a frown. <em> It’s so sad, </em> she thinks. <em> Nothing is worse than finding out this way. </em></p>
<p>It’s scarcely a minute before Bruce finds the room, letting himself in to the sight of a padded couch, a few chairs, a couple pillows, and a small table in the middle of the room. It looks nothing like an examination room, nor a place for a sick person to stay. </p>
<p>It sets Bruce on edge.</p>
<p>He’s connecting the pieces together, things are falling into place, and each time he solves the puzzle, he forces himself to erase it all and rethink the conclusion. He has to rethink it because there’s no way the outcome could be true. It’s not possible and Bruce refuses to think it’s the only interpretation of what’s going on. Dick was fine. Dick was hospitalized, but he was fine.</p>
<p>Dick has to be fine. </p>
<p>Bruce doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he’s not.</p>
<p>He waits for what feels like hours, pacing back and forth in the small but comfortable room, occasionally hitting his foot on the legs of the chairs. His palm is stinging, he knows he’s fallen into old habits again, but the anxiety running through him, the unknown screaming in his face, is all too much to ignore and stave off. The patience he has runs thin on a normal day, and now that there are no outlets other than the blunt nails on his fingers and the calloused skin on his palms, Bruce finds that he doesn’t mind the distraction.</p>
<p>Finally, the door opens. </p>
<p>Perhaps finally isn’t the right word.</p>
<p>“Hello,” a man who looks to be in his forties says, graying hair cutting through clean black. “I hope I didn’t keep you long.”</p>
<p>Bruce can only glance at the clock on the far wall, realizing the hours were only three minutes, and extend his hand. “It’s fine. Dr.Hammot, I’m assuming?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he replies, face tired and voice worn. “I am the Chief of medicine here at Bludhaven.”</p>
<p>Bruce licks his lips. His mouth is suddenly a lot drier than it had been a minute ago. “I’m Bruce Wayne. I… I got a call. About Richard. Richard Grayson. My son.”</p>
<p>Dr.Hammot nods, but his head bobs in a way that tells it’s not a happy agreement. His shoulders are tense, the notepad in his left hand is tightly gripped, and his posture is leaning away from Bruce and towards the door. Whatever he’s about to say is something he <em> knows </em>Bruce doesn’t want to hear. He’s expecting a reaction. A poor reaction.</p>
<p>Dr.Hammot gestures towards the chairs in the middle of the room, beginning to take small steps towards the coffee table. “Please, sit with me, Mr.Wayne.”</p>
<p>But Bruce is much too wound up and tense, and Dr.Hammot is much too solemn to deliver any good news and sitting down is the worst idea Bruce can think of at the moment. Sitting down means something bad. Sitting down means… sitting down means....</p>
<p>“I’d prefer to stand,” is all Bruce can say, wetting his lips again. His throat feels sore. Is he getting sick?</p>
<p>“Okay,” Dr.Hammot assents easily enough, stopping his slow steps and returning to face Bruce. “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to, but I believe sitting down might make things easier.”</p>
<p>“I… I’ll stand. Thank you.”</p>
<p>And Dr.Hammot nods again, setting down his notepad and grasping his hands together as he raises his eyes to meet Bruce’s.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Mr.Wayne, and there’s no easy way to say this, but….”</p>
<p>His heart is beating fast, his left arm is numb, or at least he thinks it’s numb, and he can barely hear anything over the roar of blood in his ears, but he can read lips well enough, and for a moment, the world <em> falls. </em></p>
<p>“Richard is dead.”</p>
<p>It falls and crumbles and he’s left standing on the last jagged ledge left, watching as darkness envelops the entirety of it all. There’s no light. There’s no air. There’s no noise. </p>
<p>It’s just him.</p>
<p>Him and the open void that gapes like a flesh wound. Bleeding and ugly and filled with pain.</p>
<p>How could he ever think any of this was insignificant? </p>
<p>“I’m sorry for your loss.”</p>
<p>And now Bruce is the one nodding. He’s not sure why, but he’s nodding and there’s this pain building at the very base of his skull, so maybe that’s why he’s nodding. Nodding means agreement right? What did he just agree to? Why is he agreeing? Loss? Sorry? What?</p>
<p>“Is there anything I can do for you, Mr.Wayne? Is there anyone you’d like to call?”</p>
<p>“How?”</p>
<p>Dr.Hammot has to lean in closer, careful to keep his distance because sometimes those close to the victim are violent, but he asks, “Excuse me? I’m sorry but I wasn’t able to hear you.”</p>
<p>“How?” Bruce repeats, a pleading note gathering at the end. His throat feels worse, like he’s been swallowing sand for the fun of it. “How did he die? How did my son die?”</p>
<p>And this is the part no one talks about because how do you tell someone? How do you describe death to someone? How do you tell someone that there was no peace? </p>
<p>“Richard’s pancreatic cancer had advanced to a stage where non-chemo treatment wasn’t enough to combat it. His body couldn’t take the stress anymore and he collapsed. Richard arrived in an ambulance, but after two revival attempts, it would have been inhumane to continue further. I… Please know, Mr.Wayne, we did everything we could.”</p>
<p>The words <em> ‘cancer’ </em> and <em> ‘revival attempts’ </em>are the only things Bruce can focus on.</p>
<p>Suddenly, that ledge he’s standing on crumbles too, and he’s left plummeting. </p>
<p>And maybe he actually falls, or maybe he just stumbles, or maybe he’s just taking a step back, but Dr.Hammot is holding his wrist in a steading grip and of course Bruce’s first reaction is to pull away, perhaps even punch the offender, but he looks up first and stops.</p>
<p>There are tears gathering in the doctor’s eyes, a glaze overshadowing blue pigment, and Bruce has to blink because he sees Dick’s eyes for a moment. He sees his eldest son’s eyes and feels a wetness build up in his own, threatening to release the storm inside him and spill his darkest secrets.</p>
<p>“Richard was a good man,” Dr.Hammot says, conveying an understanding Bruce doesn’t know what to make of. “He was a truly good person, Mr.Wayne. One of the best I ever met.”</p>
<p>Bruce blinks again and the recognition is gone. Dr.Hammot’s eyes are green.</p>
<p>“I know,” he says, twisting his arm out of the doctor’s loose grip. “I know he is.”</p>
<p>They stand there in silence for a minute. Not a word is spoken. Not a breath is loud. It is just quiet. There is just space. There is just a void.</p>
<p>Bruce licks his lips again. They’re chapped, badly so, and his tongue is still dry, but he’ll pass off the habit for now. There are… There are more important things right now.</p>
<p>“Can I see him?” he asks, his fingertips cold against the roughness of his palm. </p>
<p>Dr.Hammot has to think for a moment, frowning slightly. There is a conflict going on in his mind, a problem he isn’t sure how to breach. He’s not supposed to, and the body has been identified but- He owes this much, at least, to Richard’s family.</p>
<p>“Yes, you can see him. It’ll take awhile, but yes. You can see Richard’s body.”</p>
<p>“Can I see him now? I need to confirm it. I need to see that it’s him before… Before I tell everyone else.”</p>
<p>He’d most likely be breaking a health code, breaching some privacy law, and a hundred other protocols when it comes to the morgue, but he can’t say no. This is no longer Bruce Wayne standing in front of him; this is a father struggling. A father who no longer has a son. How can he deny that?</p>
<p>“You’ll have to wear gloves,” Dr.Hammot starts, voice slightly strained, “and you’ll be given an ID among other things, but I believe it can be arranged. Give me a few moments to prepare things. Would you like anyone to wait with you?”</p>
<p>Bruce shakes his head, fishing out his phone and staring at it. In his peripherals, he sees Dr.Hammot exit, notebook in hand, and the door shuts. It seems to set off a reaction as he feels the raging fire behind his eyes finally crest and the first tears rolls out. It lands on his phone screen, smudging his already blurry eyesight further, and his inability to even type in his passcode frustrates him beyond measure. </p>
<p>It’s six digits. Easy enough. He knows it by heart, hardly even needs to look at the screen, but <em> Try Again </em> flashes in his face over and over. God-dammit, he <em> is </em>trying. He’s trying so hard. He didn’t get it right the first time, he knows that, he knows that, but he tried so hard the second time around, and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, sixth, seventh…</p>
<p>
  <em> Try Again. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Try Again. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Try Again. </em>
</p>
<p>Another tear rolls down his face and Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, bracing against the urge to shout. He can feel it building up in his chest, feel the ache grow and become monstrous as it tears at his lungs. </p>
<p>Not yet. Not yet.</p>
<p>Dick was fine. Dick is fine. There is no call. There is no hospital. There is no Dr.Hammot. There is no cancer. There are no revival attempts. There is no morgue. Dick is fine. He’s overreacting. Dick is fine. Dick is fine. Dick is fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.</p>
<p>“Mr.Wayne,” a voice calls to him, “Please follow me.”</p>
<p>It’s all a haze, the process. A nurse guides him down down down numerous hallways, back entrances, signs that are meant as a warning, doors that shouldn’t be crossed. It gets colder the farther they go, colder and emptier and it’s so much the opposite of the burning fire in his chest that Bruce almost feels the need to laugh.</p>
<p>He never thought anywhere in the world would be colder than his tired soul.</p>
<p>He’s asked to wash his hands, take off his shoes, put on some provided sandals, take off his coat, put on some rubber surgical gloves, and then wait. Wait.</p>
<p>And then Dr.Hammot appears and tells him things. Things like: Richard’s body has been covered by a sheet, please don’t disturb it, his face has been left bare so you can see him, you’ll be in a room with him and you’ll be given privacy, you can’t stay too long, there’s only so many rules he can stretch, it may be frightening but don’t be alarmed, the body has been placed in storage for the better part of six hours, there has been no autopsy and there will be none unless asked, and and and-</p>
<p>Bruce stops listening. </p>
<p>His heart is in his ears and there is blood in his throat. </p>
<p>He can’t see the numerous others stored among the decrepit room, but in the center is an opaque sheet, and just behind it is a cot. There is a mass on that cot. A light from above illuminates the room with a cleanliness and almost holy luminescent sheen. </p>
<p>Bruce decides he hates it.</p>
<p>He hates the sound the plastic sheet makes even more as he pulls it back slightly, stepping into the enclosed area. It can hardly be called privacy, but it’s…</p>
<p>All of his breath leaves him at once, and perhaps another part of him escapes too as he gazes at the still face of his first. His eldest. His son.</p>
<p>Dick’s eyes are closed. His mouth is shut, lips sealed together, chapped and blue. His cheek bones jut out from the sides, sharp and gaunt and hollowing his face. Bruce doesn’t take the time to wonder when he got so thin, and slowly raises a gloved hand.</p>
<p>He stops inches away from thin, black hair. There are patches missing, not enough to be blatant, but enough to see that it wasn’t healthy or full. He pulls his hand away, suddenly terrified at the notion of feeling brittle hair where it should’ve been soft and shiny. </p>
<p>His skin is a sickly yellow, a contrast to the rich tones of brown Dick usually sported. The sun had blessed Dick throughout his entire life, and now, he was left bare and stripped of the pigment that gave him life. </p>
<p>Dick was…. dead?</p>
<p>For a moment, Bruce feels a wild theory run through him. Perhaps he’s not. Perhaps he’s just sleeping, or playing one of those jokes he loved to do as a kid. One of those pranks that would last for a whole afternoon, Dick playing sick and wearing a heating pad to feign a fever and Bruce taking care of him the whole day. A stunt he would pull as Robin where he’d pretend to hurt himself on a flip so he could ride on Batman’s shoulders the remainder of the time. Yes, perhaps Dick was just messing around. He’d always been good at pretending.</p>
<p>It’s a wild theory but a theory nonetheless for Bruce as he slowly places two fingers underneath Dick’s nose. The boy was good at holding his breath, his record four minutes and fifteen seconds, but bruce had already been in the plastic room for three. He could play the waiting game.</p>
<p>But then four minutes passed and it turned into five and Bruce could no longer convince himself Dick was trying at a new record. But, Dick was good at games like these. He was always so smart and able to play up a character whether it be for undercover work or charades night.</p>
<p>No one could hide a heartbeat though and Bruce feels a queasy and manic grin etch itself onto his face as he moves the two fingers to the side of his son’s neck. Yes, no one could hide a heartbeat. He would find it and would count the number of beats and all would be well. They would laugh and Bruce would congratulate his son on a prank well played and then he would phone Alfred to set up a movie night. Dick liked hot-chocolate, so maybe they’d pick up some marshmallows on their way to the manor and… yes. It was perfect.</p>
<p>Bruce waited. Pressed his fingers into the jugular and stared at his watch. Three seconds. Five. Ten. Seventeen. Thirty. Forty-five. A minute.</p>
<p>No one could hide a heartbeat.</p>
<p>One minute twenty seconds.</p>
<p>No one could hide a heartbeat for long. </p>
<p>One minute fifty seconds.</p>
<p>If there was a heartbeat, he’d feel it. He’s been doing this since forever, he knows how to look for a heartbeat.</p>
<p>Two minutes and four seconds.</p>
<p>There has to be a heartbeat. There has to be. If there wasn’t then that would mean. That would mean. </p>
<p>The delusion he’d convinced himself of falls apart and Bruce feels his heart squeeze. His mouth draws into a thin line and his chin crumples and his eyes squint with the effort not to bawl. He places both gloved hands onto his son’s perfect, sickly face and almost recoils at how cold and lifeless it is. </p>
<p>“Dick,” he breathes, wet and hollow. “Chum. It’s time… it’s time to wake up. I know it’s been hard, but it’s time to get up.”</p>
<p>There’s no response, of course there isn’t, and the frown marring Dick’s temple, frozen there for the rest of time, makes Bruce feel something shatter and bleed inside of him.</p>
<p>“I know you’re tired,” he continues, ignoring the hot tears that roll down his nose, “and I know you fought your hardest. I wish… I wish you would’ve <em> told </em> me, chum. I wish I had been there for you. I wish I could’ve fought <em> for </em> you.”</p>
<p>The harsh light above them makes Dick paler, skin mixtures of blue and purple and yellow and all these ghastly colors that have no place on someone like his son. On someone as good as Richard Grayson.</p>
<p>“I didn’t tell you enough,” Bruce says, the words strangled and weeping with sorrow, “but I love you. I loved you so much that it scared me sometimes. I pushed you away. I pushed and you still came back. Why? Why did you always come back? What did I do to deserve someone like you?”</p>
<p>He rubs his thumbs back and forth across the papery skin, seeing and memorizing every scar and wrinkle and freckle on Dick’s still face. </p>
<p>“You were my reason for living,” Bruce confesses, voice softer and only meant for his son’s ears. “You were my reason for getting up in the morning. For putting on the cowl and believing that I was doing something good in the world. That there was still hope for us, even with all our faults. You were my robin, Dick. My new beginning.”</p>
<p>He has to stop and take a breath because the tears that roll down his face are staining his son’s face and Dick never deserved Bruce’s shame. He never deserved any of what Bruce had to offer him: a lonely home filled with silence, absence, and loss. It was only what Dick gave that made the Manor special. That made Gotham worth protecting. Because if Dick could be reborn despite all the tragedy, blood, and desolation in his life, then perhaps others could be too.</p>
<p>Perhaps Batman could be too.</p>
<p>“You did so much, chum,” Bruce whispers. “You did so much and gave yourself away to a city that didn’t deserve you. I… I never deserved you, Dick, but you are my son. You are my son and I should have told you that sooner. I should have told you… told you what you mean to me. You are my first son and I am beyond grateful you let me be your…”</p>
<p>He pauses. Dick never… he never really said it, did he? Bruce can’t remember, but. But. </p>
<p><em> One more mercy, </em> Bruce thinks to himself, another onslaught of tears defiling his face. <em> One more mercy I’ll allow for myself.  </em></p>
<p>“I am beyond grateful you let me be your second father,” he finishes, cupping Dick’s delicate features in hands that have held numerous other bodies before. That have been the cause of suffering and demise in countless others, and now. Now he holds the face of another he’s failed. “I am grateful you let me watch you grow up. That you let me have the privilege of knowing a man as great as you. You are better than I will ever be, Dick. </p>
<p>I should have told you that.”</p>
<p>He takes one last look through his haze, struggling to permanently ingrain into his mind this moment. This remnant of what was once his son. Dick was light. He was pure. He was hope and love and determination and strength and everything Bruce could only ever wish to be.</p>
<p>But right now, here in the morgue with nothing but a plastic sheet to shield his grief, his sorrow, his guilt, right now, the man lying before him was but a shell of what once was.</p>
<p>And the man standing in front of the shell?</p>
<p>He was probably emptier.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Dick. I’m so sorry.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey guys! First off, thank you for all your comments! I do respond to all of them, and they are a joy to read! </p>
<p>So, what are your thoughts this time around? I dumped a lot on you guys (as usual) and, if you'll notice, almost all of these conversations are over the phone or with Dick hiding his face </p>
<p>Let me know your thoughts~</p>
<p>Also!! @viceturtle made more fanart!! They are absolutely amazing and I love them with all my heart</p>
<p>
  <a href="https://romanticism-is-maudlinism.tumblr.com/post/649016023309336576/the-duo-and-the-stooges-viceturtle-you">Dick and Damian sharing a drink AND The Three Stooges with their 7/11 slushies</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Family Lense: Part III- Lifetimes of Funerals</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just a small reminder that this is a mainly character driven story</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <em>“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than a thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”  </em>
</p><p>- Washington Irving</p><hr/><p>He’s dedicated nearly his entire life to the Waynes. Every step of the way, he has guided its youngest heir through life; through all his struggles, triumphs, losses, victories, pains, and horrible, horrible grief. Every moment, every monument, every tear, every day.</p><p>Alfred Pennyworth has lived two lifetimes, and they can be defined by the <em> Before </em> and the <em> After. </em>The Before wasn’t easy; there were aches and pains and secrets, but there was also the adrenaline of serving in the darkness. Of fighting for a greater cause. Of concealing an identity only known to a few. He fought for his country and Queen and couldn’t be prouder for his service.</p><p>However, the Before was… too difficult. There was never a moment's rest, never a time where he felt as if he were allowed to sit down and simply be. There was always movement, always a problem, always something detrimental that seemed as if the world would end should he ever choose to rest his weary feet. Friends, family, companions; all things he was not allowed to have for the sake of his mission. For the sake of his job. That time in his life was brief. One gets out of the service rather quickly if the soul is not given to it completely. He was still a man after all. Still young and restless and oh, how he wished for simplicity and routine and a semblance of normal. There was none in his life. Not until the After.</p><p>In the After, he met the Wayne family. A gala, hosted by some successful company that he couldn’t care to know the name of. Thomas Wayne was a handsome young doctor of twenty seven, married to an intelligent and fiery Martha Wayne, light on her feet despite a heavy pregnancy. </p><p>“Bruce,” she smiled. “Bruce Thomas Wayne. He’ll be a darling little boy, though if he’s anything like his father, he’s sure to be a handful.”</p><p>“And if he’s anything like his mother,” Thomas laughed, “He’ll have the wit to back it up.”</p><p>They were a beautiful couple. Happy, in-love, and ready to push themselves to be greater. To do greater. To help others be greater.</p><p>“Oh, no, I’m afraid not,” Martha apologized. “We live in America. We’re here on business, though we wish we could stay longer. The United Kingdom is lovely; it reminds me of Gotham.”</p><p>Gotham was a dreary place, filled with dark clouds, scum, and poverty up to its knees. The Wayne family had been established there for generations though; the latest heir, Thomas, doing his best to finally make permanent change. </p><p>“If you’d ever like to visit, we would love to show you around,” Thomas offered, grinning in that unusual American way that always seemed too open. Too friendly. Too trusting. “And if you’re ever looking for a job, Wayne Enterprises would be happy to do an interview.”</p><p>Alfred credits himself with having an excellent memory. He’s always up-to-date on world events, old habits die hard, and he can keep track of nearly every important conversation of his life and recall it as if it had just happened. </p><p>But, somehow, he found himself bereft of all memory concerning how he got himself a permanent visa and a job in the Wayne household. One day, he was in his homeland drinking tea and aimless in what to do, and the next, he finds himself in charge of an entire household of maids and house-keepers and gardeners and chefs and door-men and security and every single person that makes the Wayne Manor tick.</p><p>And then, Master Bruce is born. Mister Wayne delivers the child himself, proudly crying as he holds his wailing son and his beloved wife’s hand. Alfred would be a cheat if he denied there were no tears on his end, but it is a happy day and beautiful for everyone.</p><p>They call Master Bruce “Gotham’s Prince”, and Alfred finds it carries a nice ring even if it is quite egotistical. </p><p>The boy takes after his mother, as his father predicted. He’s intelligent for a baby, understanding his name almost overnight and having an attitude that would make the British Crown cry. Though it takes time for his hair to grow, a few months at that, Alfred is shockingly pleased to see the full mutation of jet black hair and icy blue eyes that shimmer in the light. He is a gorgeous child with an adorable, gummy smile and Alfred finds himself becoming overwhelmingly attached. </p><p>The first time Master Bruce says,<em> “Alfie”, </em> he has to restrain himself from shedding a few unsightly tears.</p><p>The Wayne’s are a busy couple, Martha running Wayne Enterprises and Thomas overseeing a large portion of the Gotham City Hospital. They make time for their son, they are magnificent parents in that way, but in the times where their schedules simply won’t allow it, Alfred takes care of him. Master Bruce grows in bursts, gaining a few inches one year and then stopping the next.</p><p>Alfred teaches him everything he knows, except things a six year old should not know. He teaches the young Master how to perfect a brew of tea, how to properly bake a scone, how to decode Morse and read the classics. He finds Master Bruce especially fond of Edgar Allen Poe; odd for a child who still doesn’t know how to tie his own shoelaces.</p><p>The Waynes treat him as family. Every holiday, and America has many, he is invited to attend the galas, eat at the family and formal dining tables, and even go on vacation with them. He finds it odd at first as he’s never been employed by someone who cares so deeply and wants to form a bond, but he goes along with it. </p><p>Once, and he’ll never speak a word of it, Master Bruce calls him, <em> “Grandfather.” </em>Immediately he corrects the young boy, saying, “No, I am not your grandfather; I am your butler and you will address me as nothing else. “</p><p>Alfred will be buried in the ground before he ever admits that his heart had soared at being called such a word.</p><p>It is two years later when tragedy strikes. He is alone in the Manor, having sent off the rest of the servants for the night, when he gets a call from the GCPD. The words Commissioner Gordon tells him leave his blood cold and his head impossibly frantic, and the only thing he can do is drive and find the boy who was left in an alleyway, forever orphaned. </p><p>The days that follow are filled with nothing but grief and abhorrent confusion.</p><p>They left Wills, instructions for what to do with their fortune, who to give the company over to, when to give Master Bruce his due: everything. Alfred feels his heart stutter when he finds the funeral plans as well. He feels his heart clench even more when he finds their son’s.</p><p>He’s never planned a funeral. He has attended a few, but he hardly knew the nameless in those coffins. This, though, this was different. This was Thomas and Martha Wayne, who opened their hearts and their home to him, and in their wake, left him their child as well.</p><p>Alfred lays awake many nights after the joint funeral, wondering if he had done it all right. Wondering if the flowers were to Master Bruce’s liking. Wondering if the burial ground was going to be well-kept or how often Master Bruce would like to visit. Wondering if he could ever amount to be what that small and frightened eight year old needed him to be.</p><p>He tries to fill the void with life in the ancient household. He refuses to touch any of the late Wayne’s things, only going near their bedroom to clean. Often, he takes Master Bruce out and away from the suffocation he feels, finding retribution in scouring old libraries and studies for first-edition classics and the like.</p><p>It is nearly enough. It is nearly enough to help heal the wound in Master Bruce’s shredded heart, but it is not. He grows into a fine young man, no longer “Gotham’s Prince” but “Gotham’s Playboy”. Alfred worries he hadn’t done enough, hadn’t taught him enough about life and what to do, when he reads those ghastly articles and gossip podcasts.</p><p>But when Master Bruce returns from his long nights at clubs, and he is already an adult but Mister Wayne was his father and Alfred can’t quite bring up a dead-man yet, it hurts too much to say the name of someone he loved and considered family, Alfred knows that he is still the same little boy that gasped and oo-ed and awe-ed at the writings of Poe. He knows this when Master Bruce comes to sit beside him in front of the fireplace, leaning his head against the butler’s shoulder like the world has rested its weight upon his tortured soul.</p><p>And perhaps it did because Master Bruce disappears. He disappears for months and then reappears, covered in scars and with a new heaviness in his eyes with each disappearance and eventual return. Alfred does not question his charge on where he goes. He is simply happy he comes back home.</p><p>Home.</p><p>Gotham is Batman’s home. More so than Bruce Wayne’s.</p><p>Master Bruce is at the young and tender age of twenty six when he first dons the emblem. Only a year younger than his father when Alfred first met him, and sometimes a certain twang resounds in his chest every time he looks at the boy because he has Thomas’s sharp jaw and Martha’s bright eyes, but they are overshadowed by the sleepless nights and the purple bruises that appear every day. </p><p>Sometimes it hurts to look at his boy, his <em> son, </em>when all he can see are ghosts.</p><p>Only a year into his crusade does Master Bruce’s life take another turn. A much needed turn that appears in the form of an angry and gangly Richard John Grayson. </p><p>Perhaps Master Bruce had found a connection between himself and the boy. Both orphaned at a young age, parents murdered for some paper bills, and a lifetime of sorrow ahead of them. But the boy comes with an angry soul, thirsting for revenge and shriveling away as the weeks pass by with no result, even with Batman’s interference.</p><p>Before the boy is taken in under Master Bruce’s care, he sponsors the Grayson funeral. Unlike the Wayne’s, there are no preparations or instructions or anything to go by on how to plan their farewell. Richard, a child of nine, can only say that their traditions insisted that everything in their possession be burned, lest they carry unwanted memories and denials of the past.</p><p>The nine year old is intelligent and wise beyond his years, but he carries a heavy burden.</p><p>Alfred takes it upon himself to plan the funeral, taking into consideration what the boy says and preparing accordingly. And, just like before, thoughts and questions torment him for days after, wondering if he had done everything right or if everything was wrong. Richard says nothing and Alfred vows to himself to never have a hand in planning another funeral.</p><p>And then, the Grayson killer is caught and Richard comes to the Manor. Not adopted, no, Master Bruce cannot take the responsibility, or so he says, and he becomes Master Dick. The nickname is old fashioned and takes a while to get accustomed to, but Alfred manages and the Manor finally becomes filled with the life and light he had been searching for all those years ago.</p><p>Master Bruce loves the boy but a dark part of Alfred snarls that he doesn’t love him enough. If Master Bruce had truly loved Master Dick, then he would never have allowed him to appear by Batman’s side. They are happy though and Alfred keeps his mouth shut; if only for the sake of all of their sanities.</p><p>And then, Master Dick grows up.</p><p>It happens in the blink of an eye but suddenly he has too many responsibilities and too little time and all Batman wants is a loyal partner, a loyal soldier, and Master Dick cannot do everything he does and still remain as dedicated to Batman as Robin could be.</p><p>The day Master Dick leaves, <em> is kicked out onto the streets, </em> struggling against tears as he hands over the Manor’s key, is a day Alfred will never forget. </p><p>He does not speak to Master Bruce for an entire month after and it hurts Alfred to see the regret that spills over his grandson’s face every time he glances around the Cave to find no one else there. He cannot pity him though. Master Bruce had become Batman and there was no separating them.</p><p>And then, Batman returns one night with an unsightly little boy; short, skinny, and smelling of grime and other un-namely things. He was an official criminal at the mere age of twelve and had been abandoned, mistreated, abused, and starved on Gotham’s streets since he was six. Alfred would make the comparison to a sickly puppy had it not been for the fact that most puppies don’t curse and kick.</p><p>His name is Jason Peter Todd, and he “don’t take shit from nobody, so beat it”. Alfred is quick to erase the nearly unintelligible street accent, providing books and literature to give him something else to focus on. </p><p>This time, and Alfred is stunned, Master Bruce adopts the boy. Alfred does not know why, as he had known and harbored and <em> loved </em>Master Dick for over ten years but had only ever kept him as a ward, but the tears that fall down Master Jason’s face when the adoption papers are signed wash away all traces of doubt.</p><p>This time, this time, it was Master Bruce that wanted Jason Todd. Not Batman. </p><p>Somehow, though, Master Bruce does not learn from his first mistake and allows the boy to become Robin. He is competent, incredibly skilled and a hard-worker, but his presence is noticed immediately among the Gotham filth and everyone knows he is not the same Robin as before.</p><p>Master Dick had long since outgrown the name Robin, a new hero of Nightwing rising in Bludhaven, but it was incredible how much young Master Jason and Master Dick looked alike. The only difference was their eyes, a slightly greener shade of blue, and the curvature of their noses. </p><p>All too quickly, Alfred finds himself attached once again. Attached and loving the idea of this short and stocky child being a part of the Manor with all of his little quips, his interest in classics that Master Dick hadn’t always taken to, and his bewildering love of baking and British culture. He becomes the second star in their otherwise bleak home, and Alfred can safely say that Master Jason is like his own child. </p><p>Just as Master Dick once was before….</p><p>Nightwing and Robin meet, unbeknownst to Batman, but Agent A is always on the comms. Always hears everything. Yet more tears spring forth into his eyes when he hears their first interaction, their first train surf together, their first time being <em> brothers. </em>It is overwhelming and beautiful but Nightwing is too cautious to return to Gotham. To “invade” Batman’s territory.</p><p>He wishes to speak to the young man, badly so. He wants to tell him that he is always welcome to the Manor, he does not need permission to enter his own home, but Master Dick is stubborn, always has been. He refuses to listen to what the old butler says, too fearful of what Master Bruce might <em> do </em> upon seeing him.</p><p>Everyday, Alfred regrets not stepping in sooner. Not immediately pulling the seventeen year old back into their arms and assuring him that this was where he belonged. </p><p>And then four years pass and Master Jason… </p><p>Alfred breaks his vow and plans the third funeral of his lifetime. </p><p>He is not allowed to see the body. Master Bruce refuses an autopsy, refuses reporters, refuses everyone and everything and it all erupts when Master Dick arrives to comfort him. The young man leaves through the front door, hugging the butler, and Alfred feels his blood pressure rise upon seeing the red mark stained across his eldest’s cheek. </p><p>The Manor is left colder, emptier, and more dead than it ever has been before. </p><p>Batman is crueler than ever before.</p><p>Master Bruce is hurting more than ever before.</p><p>And Alfred… he does not think he has the strength to bear the weight of all the silence. </p><p>And then, for the third time, a small thing of a child appears on the Manor’s doorsteps, determination in his gaze though his stature shakes with the cold. Alfred immediately recognizes him as the sole heir to the Drake family fortune and invites him in. He confesses he knows of the basement’s dark secrets, confesses he’s already made contact with the lone vigilante in Bludhaven, and after finding no help, has taken it upon himself to restore Batman to who he was. Confesses his plans to become the next Robin.</p><p>“Batman needs a Robin,” he said with all the confidence of someone who has dedicated themselves to years of research.</p><p><em> No, </em> Alfred thinks, his only option to shelter the boy for the time being. <em> Bruce needs his sons. </em></p><p>Master Bruce does not listen. He tries, Heaven knows the man truly tries, but he is a selfish creature deprived, seeking out comfort, stability, and love in a life where there is none. Alfred fights. He fights his hardest, pleading, begging, arguing, coming close to fists, to force Batman into turning away Timothy Jackson Drake. To force Master Bruce to see clear reason and wipe away the years of tears that have clouded his vision for so long.</p><p>Four months later, a third Robin is seen carrying a bow staff as his main weapon.</p><p>And then the Drake family falls apart and Timothy Drake becomes Timothy Drake-Wayne. </p><p>Alfred does not oversee the funeral. He is unbearably grateful for that.</p><p>Alfred tries to distance himself. Tries his hardest to keep a professional relationship with Master Timothy; rather Master Tim. His heart cannot handle another ache. Another pain. He is getting far too old to handle much else. </p><p>But, try as he might, he sees the cold left in Master Bruce’s wake. Sees the loneliness and the longing the boy wants but does not ask for. Sees all his needs, his basic and childish dreams of love, and Alfred cannot help but reach out. It starts with a simple cup of tea by the fire, and Alfred finds yet another glimmering light in his life. </p><p>Master Tim is a quiet blessing.</p><p>Alfred knows many things. Knows what goes on in and outside the Manor and Wayne Enterprises. But, he does not always know what is going on with the cowls and the capes and masks and everything in between.</p><p>So when Master Tim arrives home one day and a girl hardly older than him dons the mantle of Robin, confusion is inevitable. He tries to get to know the girl, a fiery young thing that reminds him painfully of Martha Wayne, and Master Tim seems to be infatuated with her. She is a spark in their home that lights a dozen candles, Master Tim glowing all the more warm for it.</p><p>It lasts seventy one days, this spark.</p><p>Alfred decides he cannot keep promises anymore. He cannot continue to make empty vows. </p><p>The funeral is short, brief, but the gravestone is immaculately carved.</p><p>Master Tim becomes alone again and Alfred can do nothing about it.</p><p>And Master Bruce… he watched as she died and could only blame himself for the child’s death. Another protective layer consumes the man and light does not return to the Manor for a long time. Master Tim returns as Robin, and he confesses yet another secret. He does not think he can be Robin forever. He does not believe he is built for this lifestyle, but now there is no turning back. He is afraid. He is trapped. He has no other choice. He is Robin and he is no one else. </p><p>Another fracture splits Alfred’s heart and he can only offer simple comfort. He has nothing else left to give.</p><p>Batgirl, Miss Gordon, operates under her own violation. She’d been working with Batman and Robin since she was a teenager and Master Dick was ten. She’d been in the business almost as long as anyone else, and for that, she is resilient, capable, and strong. </p><p>But, just as they are always reminded, no matter how strong someone thinks they are, or how prepared they make themselves, guns will always win a battle of wills. </p><p>Batgirl becomes Oracle, and Miss Gordon disappears. Her soul clenches, her head and body are no longer connected in the same plane, and her spirit withers. For two years, she suffers in silence, becoming less of herself with each passing day.</p><p>The hate, the animosity, the <em> blood lust, </em>grows within the Cave. Batman is ruthless in his pursuit. Nightwing ventures into Gotham for a singular reason; what that reason is remains unspoken, but they all understand everyone has a breaking point. A snap. A fracture. A complete burst of morale and confidence.</p><p>For one, breath taking moment, Master Tim is dead. </p><p>Alfred feels himself faint at the idea of another funeral for him to work through.</p><p>Killer Croc holds Robin’s tattered suit in his monstrous hands, the stench of sewer and death on his rank breath, and Nightwing snaps. He snaps and redirects and it is horrifying. Alfred can only hear bits and pieces of the conversation between Nightwing and Joker, but it is enough for his own hands to shake and twitch with the urge to do the honor himself.</p><p>Never, though, did he expect it to actually happen. Never.</p><p>Joker dies. Joker is… murdered. Nightwing is a killer. Nightwing murdered the Joker.</p><p>He… avenges though. Nightwing avenges Master Jason. Nightwing avenges Miss Gordon. Nightwing avenges Robin, Master Tim. Nightwing avenges all the lost souls and forever miserable lives created by that monster. Master Dick breaks his promise, breaks his vow, breaks his <em> code </em> , and it is horrifying and it is <em> vengeance.  </em></p><p>But then, Robin appears. Master Tim is <em> alive </em>.</p><p>And Master Dick, Nightwing, realizes he is forever tarnished. He played right into Joker’s hands.</p><p>Batman resuscitates the clown and he lives to see another day to rot.</p><p>Joker has won.</p><p>Again.</p><p>But, Alfred does not need to plan another funeral. He is… he does not know the word for the relief and anger he feels. It is better for it to go unnamed.</p><p>Red Hood is violent, murderous, stark, and a threat. A terror. Dangerous. Psychotic. Raving mad. A marksman with a pension for painful deaths. Familiar.</p><p>Batman goes to blows with the man one night. Batman is vexed. Batman is furious. Batman is unrestrained and hurting and not holding back because it appears that Red Hood is not afraid of him and can take the uppercuts and kicks he receives. Even when his guns have been stripped of his body and his helmet is broken and piercing his skin, Red Hood is grinning and sobbing at the same time.</p><p><em> “Why is he still alive?” </em> he says, the rain that pours down almost drowning out his voice. <em> “Why is that fucker still alive and I’m… I’m-” </em></p><p>That night, Batman nearly kills his son. His dead son. His previously dead son that Master Bruce is convinced is a body robbed and cloned. He is real though. He is real and alive and different and angry and full of many irrational and completely rational things. But....</p><p>Master Jason is alive.</p><p>He does not return home though. Red Hood hates Batman almost as much as he hates Joker. Master Jason hates Master Bruce even more than he does Batman. He does not visit. He claims the Narrows as his own, daring anyone to go near. He is still psychotic and, as Alfred learns, mentally crippled by the Pit. However, he is still the same little boy that read and loved Shakespeare and recited his favorite poems in the main living room, grin impossibly wide as Master Bruce looked on and he himself dared to dream of a bright future.</p><p>Alfred refuses to believe otherwise.</p><p>As if this impossibly wounded and tattered family could not grow any further, yet another little boy appears. Talia al Ghul arrives, a small boy of eleven in tow. When he first lays eyes on the boy, scowling darker than such a soft face should allow, Alfred must take a step back, for his breath is stolen away.</p><p>Damian Wayne al Ghul. Son of Batman and heiress to the League of Assassins. Built, born, and trained to be the ultimate fighter. The eventual heir to the mantle of Batman and the League of Assassins. </p><p>He is almost a perfect replica of a young Master Bruce. The only difference is their eyes, the eleven year old’s a unique shade of emerald. His mother’s trait. The mother leaves just as quickly as she came, leaving the boy alone.</p><p>In short, the child is difficult. Master Damian treats everyone as if they are lesser than the dirt beneath his feet, the only smidgen of respect in his small vessel of a body held solely for his father. Master Bruce is less than accepting of his son, the bloodlines Master Damian clings to meaningless to the older man. </p><p>There are many fights within the Manor and the Cave. Master Tim attempts a partnership of sorts, but the eleven year old is quick to dismiss with harsh words, insults, and untrue assumptions. It all comes to a head when they are forced to cooperate in a defense against the League of Assassins, Master Damian willing to sacrifice Master Tim for his own gain.</p><p>Master Tim almost dies again, and Master Damian retreats with his mother.</p><p>Then, Master Damian returns. Alfred does not know what made the boy return, nor is he willing to question the child’s true intentions, but a misunderstanding lights the fire once more between the two boys of the household whilst Batman is gone and then….</p><p>Batman….</p><p>Master Bruce…</p><p>Thomas and Martha Wayne’s son…</p><p>
  <em> His child… </em>
</p><p>Dies. </p><p>He is gone. Gone and dead on a planet far away and all that remains of his son is a tortured corpse that rots and falls apart in Superman’s hands.</p><p>There are funeral plans because Master Bruce was kind and merciful like that. He knows the toll it takes on the old butler, and Alfred is forever grateful he is given the option to pass off the instructions to someone else. But, how can he? How can he not plan for his own grandson? How can he pass him off, pass him <em> away </em>, like it is any other funeral when it is Thomas’s son? Martha’s son?</p><p>His boy.</p><p>Alfred is hollowed. Carved out. Empty and tattered and shriveled until nothing is left but a shell that echoes in the darkness. If someone were to pick up his shell heart and hold it up to their ears, they would only hear the remnant of grating screams and heart-broken sobs.</p><p>Of course they all grieve and mourn Bruce Wayne, but as Alfred has learned over the years, Batman and Master Bruce are one in the same. There is no Gotham without Batman, and something must be done to replace the bleeding wound that stains its streets.</p><p>Master Jason attempts. He designs his own suit, comes equipped with his own weapons and methods and ideals, but it is too much. It is too much for Gotham, and Master Dick, Master Tim, and Master Damian cannot allow it. The feral Batman is subdued and Master Dick is left with no choice but to discard his own creation to become the figure he’d feared his entire life.</p><p>But, the Manor is not a home anymore. It is too unbearable. Filled with too many ghosts and haunts and hopeless dreams that become deformed into nightmares that follow into daylight. So, they move out and away from the ancient household of the Waynes. </p><p>Master Dick sees a broken family and shoves the responsibility of repair onto himself. In doing so, he displaces and it is a mistake but a deemed necessary one.</p><p>Master Damian becomes Robin. Master Tim becomes Red Robin and is filled with grief, doubt, and anger all at once.</p><p>They have all lost. They have lost too much.</p><p>In the midst of the grieving chaos, a Cassandra Cain arrives. She claims to have worked with Batman years before, stationed internationally as a spy to relay information back to Gotham. Master Dick is wary at first. He does not know this woman, this <em> girl </em>, and she is dangerous. She is lethal and perhaps more capable of fighting than anyone else in the corporation. She says that they can trust her, that Batman had files on her and messages and many other receipts to prove her trustworthiness. </p><p>She claims all of this through mostly sign-language, her speech pattern broken from a mix of inability to communicate and the astonishing ability to read body language and interpret it all as if it were spoken aloud. </p><p>Another bombshell is dropped upon them when Spoiler arrives. </p><p>Red Robin is furious, shouting with ill-contained rage at the copy-cat. This imposter was wearing the mask of his former lover. His former best friend. This was… This could not be allowed. And yet, it is true. This woman is Stephanie Brown, never having died but having played the part. She has returned and she is broken all the more for it, but refuses for that to drag her down. </p><p>Amidst all of this, Master Tim is still doubting. Is still grieving. Or rather, refusing to grieve over a man he does not believe to be dead. Master Dick pleads with him, practically begging the young man to stay with them in Gotham, but Master Tim is infatuated with his theories. He is a boy obsessed with the impossible, and nothing is stopping him.</p><p>He leaves. He leaves in search of Master Bruce, thought to be lost in time.</p><p>It is a wild hypothesis. A near impossible theory. But it is also a fool’s hope.</p><p>And Alfred cannot allow himself to believe it. To be a fool. Master Dick does not allow himself to believe it either. Hardly anyone can allow themselves hope, and it makes Alfred’s heart hurt all the worse.  He is getting old. His bones creak with each passing year and he fears for the day where he will not be able to shoulder the grief any longer.</p><p>Though he loves every child that has stepped foot in the Manor, he cannot support Master Tim’s quest. He has planned too many funerals. He has picked out the stone and marble and engravings and burial sites and flower arrangements and caskets and orders of speeches and has done it all one too many times. If he must go through it all, then he will damn himself before he risks the idea of it all being for naught. Of his grief and heart-ache being all for nothing.</p><p>No, never for nothing. Alfred is not bold enough to say that. His grief and sorrow stems from the happiness garnered from that person whom he now places in the cold dirt. But, once more, he will damn himself before he ever decides to look upon those memories, both the good and bad, and pretend the bad never tainted the good in the first place.</p><p>You do not grow a flower to have it die. </p><p>Just the same, you do not love someone and expect them to leave.</p><p>So, Alfred remains with Master Dick and Master Damian. He cannot handle much else. He cannot take back his grief, just as he cannot unplan his own grandson’s funeral.</p><p>As best as he is able, Alfred contains himself. He represses, depresses, and compresses his emotions into a tiny shelf in the back corners of his mind. They are not hidden, he has seen and born witness to the self-destruction that is denying such feelings, but he keeps them quiet and he keeps himself busy. It is easy to stay busy with the new arrangements. </p><p>Master Damian is irate and hostile most of the time. Even with the responsibility of Robin on his small shoulders, a weight no young boy should’ve ever carried, he is smug and selfish and still just eleven. The boy struggles with the power imbalance he finds himself placed within; Master Dick is Batman, a figure of authority and once held by his father, but Master Damian holds no respect for him. They all struggle in this partnership, in the ever present shadow left behind a man that could do the impossible with ease. </p><p>Master Dick has the hardest time of them all. He gives up his home in Bludhaven, gives up his hard earned individuality and freedom. He gives up his name, his meager titles, his life of hardly any publicity. He gives up the normalcy of a life uncentered around the Wayne name.</p><p>Now, he is in the spotlight again. Now, he takes over not only Bruce Wayne’s responsibilities of Wayne Enterprises and the public, but also the caretaker of his new son. He takes over the responsibilities of Batman: protecting Gotham, keeping up and helping the Justice League, and mentoring and guiding a belligerent and dangerous Robin. </p><p>What’s more, Master Dick also fights with his own grief. His own dilemmas and sorrows over the loss of his parental figure. He has lost a father not once, but twice in his life now, and there is yet another grave for him to visit. </p><p>But there is no time for his problems, Alfred thinks. There is no time for Master Dick to stand still and grieve and process all that has happened. There is too much to do, too much to handle, and too many things that need his attention. Alfred watches as the younger man slowly begins to cripple himself, doing the one thing he swore he’d never do.</p><p>Alfred watches Master Dick succumb to the cowl and fall prey to its practices. </p><p>A gruesome and terrible attack leaves Master Damian paralyzed and in recovery. There is no choice but to leave Robin behind when Batman departs suddenly, a mission he says no word about. They wait and keep themselves occupied in the meantime, something the young boy is greatly frustrated with.</p><p>Then, Batman returns.</p><p>Except, it is not Batman. At least, it is not Master Dick.</p><p>This is… This is…</p><p>Alfred is beaten by a man with the same face as his dead child. He is beaten and tossed aside, and Alfred can feel his heart weakening as he watches the <em> thing </em>advance towards the wheelchair bound eleven year old. It takes their meager strength combined to defend themselves from the brute.</p><p>The old butler is hurting; physically by the numerous bruises and cuts, and mentally by the visage of a rotting corpse with the same elegant jaw line as Thomas and the keen eyes of Martha and the soft but subtle slope of a brow only known to Master Bruce.</p><p>Master Dick arrives just in time to save Master Damian, plummeting from the sky and taking Alfred’s breath with him. </p><p>The clone, as Alfred learns, was created by the monster that killed Master Bruce in the first place. Master Dick had gone alone to resurrect the clone in the hopes that it had truly been their Batman. </p><p>“I didn’t,” he confesses, staring deeply into Master Damian’s eyes, an apology spelled out in bold print, “I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up in case it wasn’t true. It wasn’t, and I’m sorry.”</p><p>For a brief moment, the idea of his son being alive once more makes Alfred’s heart soar. He is quick to smother and shelve it.</p><p>“That was not Father,” the young boy says, a bandage adorning his small face. A battle scarred and hollowed face.</p><p>“No,” Master Dick agrees. “It wasn’t Bruce, but that means Tim was right. Tim was right.”</p><p>“Sir?” Alfred has to ask, because if he assumes and he is <em> wrong, </em>he won’t know what to do.</p><p>Master Dick nods. “Bruce is alive and he’s out there. Somewhere.”</p><p>Alive?</p><p>It is impossible. It cannot be true. It… Alfred cannot believe it to be true. No, no, he’s already had this thought before. He cannot take much else because if his son is alive and breathing and well, because if he is smiling and if he, if just for a spell, is not Batman, then that would mean his boy would be living. No, that makes no sense but not much does these days and oh, lord, give him strength.</p><p>Quickly, as if the signs were always there and they had just never noticed, clues begin to pop up of Master Bruce’s existence. Portraits within the Manor contain bats in them all. One or two might even contain a man that looks strikingly familiar. A bat totem pole appears as well, and it is almost too good to be true. Master Tim returns and he is elated at the prospects because his theory and his doubt proved to be true. And, although not as quickly as the clues appeared, Master Dick and Master Damian begin to bond. Alfred is not privy to all that goes on between them, nor does he wish to intrude on their privacy, but he notices the relationship strengthening. </p><p>He sees the way Robin defers automatically to Batman when faced with troubles. Sees how Master Dick entrusts more responsibilities to Master Damian. Gazes upon their</p><p>interactions becoming more and more filled with mutual understanding, respect, and a partnership perhaps just breaching the atypical style that is the dynamic duo.</p><p>Master Damian hardly tolerates any sort of affection, be it praise that he scoffs at or physical shows of appreciation, of which he pushes away. However, Master Dick finds a way to still show it in a way that gives room to the young boy’s boundaries. Master Damian is a strong child, built to last and endure against unimaginable situations. In a way, it is difficult to remind oneself that Master Damian is, in fact, pre-pubescent and not just a cold-blooded assassin raised to fight and subdue all in his path.</p><p>Master Dick never forgets the needs of a young child though. Even if the boy insists that he is too old or too intelligent for the childish and inane things in life, Master Dick makes it a point to do the things every pre-teen dreams of with him. </p><p>One night, Master Dick drives Master Damian to the annual carnival in Gotham. They return with an enormous pink cow, plush of course, and the young boy disappears into his room with it in tow. Another night, Batman manages to find an ice-cream parlor that isn’t opposed to serving vigilantes and treats Robin to his first classic hot fudge sundae, topped with a maraschino cherry. Robin returns with a suspicious amount of energy and the remnants of chocolate on his cape. </p><p>A chill begins to thaw in his heart. Not at first, and not to the point where his soul feels whole once again, but it is enough for Alfred to finally feel like there is life again. That there is more than just the funerals he plans and the graves he visits every week.</p><p>He sees the chill thawing in Master Dick as well, the boy in his charge something new and brighter to focus on rather than the heavy legacy the young man carries. Master Damian is a difficult blessing for Master Dick, but cherished and loved nonetheless. They are content and perhaps happy. It is a good thing.</p><p>A terrifying case leads them down a rabbit hole of deception, Robin captured and drugged by their old enemy, Joker. The psychotic monster, for he is hardly a man, has once again fooled them and intends to use Batman and Robin for his own goals against a common enemy. Things are bleak, Master Dick is frantic, and Robin is still incapacitated by a modified strand of Joker venom. Alfred is worried he’ll have to call for backup, worried that the backup will come too late and that his boys will be… that they might succumb. </p><p>Gotham is a strange mix of nightmares and miracles though, and amidst the nightmare, a miracle arrives. </p><p><em> The Batman, </em>the original, swoops in and saves them. Helps them to capture Joker and the Black Glove, throw them back into Arkham, and everyone is shell-shocked. </p><p>There are no words, hardly any cheer within their surprise, but Alfred gathers <em>his</em> <em>child </em>into his arms and weeps.</p><p>He weeps and hugs and tightens his hold all the more fiercely because he can hear Master Bruce’s heartbeat. He can feel the <em> life </em>flowing through his body, feel each breath and exhale, embrace the warmth and the roughness of his child. </p><p>Master Bruce is back. He is alive. </p><p>He prays Martha and Thomas forgive him for ever losing sight of their son.</p><p>The transition is hard for all parties involved. They move back into the Manor, Alfred trying his best to distance himself from the cloud that overhangs them by cleaning and repairing. Try as he might, he still hears the fights. Hears Master Damian’s displeasure with having to start over.</p><p>It is unfair for the boy. Master Dick leaves soon after Master Bruce takes back over the mantle, taking Robin as well. Master Damian is left alone, as his “Father” that he’d held such high expectations for, had waited so long for, is nothing like the man he imagined. </p><p>Yes, this Batman is brilliant and strong and determined in his crusade, but he is nothing like the Batman he had trained with. Nothing like the man who had taken on the parental responsibilities of an eleven year old. He does not crack jokes on patrol or take the time to stop for the elderly asking for directions. He does not trust Robin with the things he had been trusted with before, does not allow him privileges that had come so easy the first time around.</p><p>Master Damian looks at his father and knows that all the man can see is the product of a night of drinking and a dangerous ancestry.</p><p>It is not all bad though. Titus, a rambunctious dog filled with more energy than a puppy, is introduced into the family. He becomes Master Bruce’s and Master Damian’s dog, a healthier coping mechanism for the both of them. Additionally, Robin is occasionally spotted in Bludhaven, tag teaming with Nightwing. Though they aren’t Batman and Robin anymore, they are still brothers. They still have that immensely strong bond and-</p><p>And then, as it always does, tragedy strikes and Robin is… Master Damian is…</p><p>They keep his casket closed, keep the cloth wrapped around his fragile body clean and secured, and lay white roses onto fresh dirt. Master Dick leaves early, he is too shaken, and Alfred is tempted to do the same but he knows he is needed.</p><p>Master Bruce has lost yet another son. </p><p>Why is it that the youth die young? Why has he, someone who should’ve died a long time ago, the one to witness the life drain out of children? The world is jealous of their potential. That is why it steals away the young’s fragile breath because it knows that should they grow up, they would do amazing things. Things that are beyond a weak god’s imagination. Things that would surpass all others because the youth are kind and brave and full of greatness.</p><p>But the world is cruel. The universe is wicked.</p><p>The number goes up to six and Alfred has no tears left to cry.</p><p>Something he’s learned over the years is that Master Bruce grieves in a way that is dangerous. When he grieves in private, that kind of grief is acceptable. It is grief that comes in the form of tears, long showers, heavy feet, and long, long, sleepless nights. </p><p>When Master Bruce cannot grieve in private, that is when it becomes dangerous. That is when Batman comes home with black stains on his front, torn capes, and broken thumbs. That is when crime syndicates lay low and petty thieves show up at police departments with concussions and fractured arms. That is when he must be checked by those around him, put into place and reminded of his duty to protect rather than avenge. </p><p>Master Bruce grieves like a father; Batman grieves like that lost little boy splattered in blood Alfred found in an alleyway all those years ago.</p><p>It is a toxic combination, but just as it has been for the past thirteen years, it is an inseparable mix.</p><p>Master Dick grieves as well, in the only way he’s ever done so. Distance makes the heart grow fonder and makes the ache more painful, and Alfred does not see his grandson for nearly two months following the funeral. He tries his best to check up on him in Bludhaven, sending groceries he’s sure Master Dick does not buy for himself and leaving emails and phone calls that rarely get a reply to. The parting is worse with Master Bruce, as Master Dick cuts nearly all lines of communication with the man, only confronting Batman as Nightwing. </p><p>Time passes though. Graves get polished, the weather evolves, and soon, a scar begins to form where a once pulsating and fleshy wound resided. </p><p>Alfred does not bother keeping track of the number of tragedies that happen any longer. He keeps his head down, only popping it up to clean up messes left behind. So it comes as no surprise to him when “Anti-Leaguers” arrive. Master Bruce is adamant on keeping him stationed in the Batcave, away from all possible chaos that could happen. He is just a civilian after all, the butler to a billionaire with a penchant for dark haired women and expensive brandy. </p><p>He watches the news though and feels the blood in his body drain and his stomach fall to the ground as Nightwing is unmasked, live, on television. His face is already so brutalized, swelling and bloody, but there is no mistaking the adopted son of someone infamous. Richard Grayson is shoved into the minds of every person in Gotham, Bludhaven, and everywhere else and all now know the face of Nightwing. </p><p>It is not hard to connect the dots from there.</p><p>The feed is eventually shut down, and Alfred is left trembling in the computer chair, waiting impatiently and with a failing heart as the hours drag on for word of what occurs in the outside world. He does not dare inquire directly, no, he knows that would be too much of a distraction, but the waiting is agony. That was his surrogate grandson out there. His grandson that was unmasked and stripped of his identity, broken down into the barest of bones and humiliated for the world to see. The Cave becomes much too silent, much too large, and Alfred is frail and his heart cannot take the mindless worry that captures him.</p><p>He hides in fear, remaining in one of the emergency bunkers the late Waynes had installed should the Manor ever come under siege. The mildew is fresh, there’s a leak in one of the vents, but the enclosement of the smaller space comforts Alfred in a way he has not felt in many years. He will always pride himself for having endured years and years of adrenaline rushes and caped crusades filled with danger unheard of, but he cannot cope at the moment. He needs solitary. Silence. Selfishness.</p><p>And then the bunker opens and Master Bruce is standing there, bloodied, bruised, broken. There is relief splashed across his face as he crushes Alfred to his dented armored chest and Alfred holds onto his son just as tightly. They walk out of the bunker, cross the way into the Batcave, bandage and reassure one another, and then Master Bruce punches Alfred.</p><p>Well, not really. He does not touch the old butler. He does not make any movement towards him. Master Bruce simply stares, drops his head, and holds out his hands like he’s seeking desperate forgiveness as he says,</p><p>“Dick is dead.”</p><p>The blow is enough to knock him off his feet, and Alfred sinks onto the cold stone and weeps. Wails. Gasps. Heaves. Does not stop until he hears Master Tim enter the Cave as well and Alfred is quick to gather the boy into his arms and share his grief. Master Tim’s shoulders shake and his face is hidden, but Alfred knows how notorious snot is to get out of clothing. He plans to burn the suit he wears now though. He cannot bear to don it again with the knowledge that it is a death suit.</p><p>The funeral is delayed. The Crime Syndicate has left too many things unsolved, too many other bodies to be buried, too many additional problems that are inherently more important than the burial of a man already dead.</p><p>When the time comes, Batman insists that Master Dick be buried in his suit. Be buried as the hero he died to be. Be buried and laid to rest as Nightwing rather than Richard John Grayson. Batman intends for Nightwing to be retired permanently. For Dick Grayson’s legacy to be only remembered as the hero of Bludhaven, leader of the Titans, friend of Superman, ally to the Justice League, and partner of Batman. Nightwing is to be buried beneath six feet of dirt and the ghost of Richard Grayson will remain in dusty frames and hollowed white light</p><p>Alfred attends the small funeral with lead feet and a ghastly grip on Titus’s dog leash. All, except for him, are dressed in their vigilante identities and Alfred lays eyes on his two remaining grandchildren and weeps. Oracle, Red Robin, and Batman lend a hand in lowering Nightwing’s coffin into the ground and Red Hood and the Outlaws stand off to the side, eyes downcast and arms crossed. It is the first time the surviving family members have been completely present together in over a year.</p><p>The graveyard is old but filled with labeled stones of names long forgotten. There is no gravestone to label Nightwing’s grave. It is too “risky” to remember such a name in such a blatant way, and the only thing to show someone is buried there is a small, red rose bush adorned with four blooming flowers. Five freshly cut stems are scattered across the black coffin, and Gotham’s blacker dirt clumps over them and engulfs another son of Batman.</p><p>Alfred returns home and burns two suits. He watches the embers destroy the cloth and feels the ashes burn his soul as well. </p><p>The number climbs higher. Seven.</p><p>Alfred expects the time following to be filled with a brimming madness. A complete insanity insatiable now that it’s guiding light has been extinguished. That does not happen though. A week passes. Then another. Then three. Batman does not stray far from his path. Does not need the guidance or reprimands of others to stay true and keep to his code. Master Tim bears the grief admirably, he is so young to carry this many deaths on his shoulders, but Master Bruce does it flawlessly, carrying on like the sun never dimmed and the floor never crumbled beneath the weight of its darkness. </p><p>An evil thought lurks in the corners of Alfred’s mind as he witnesses the lack of transformation. The lack of true reaction to the death of his son. The death of the original Robin. The death of Nightwing. Alfred is tempted to shake the man, smack him and demand what this coping strategy he’s developed has emerged from, but the thoughts are drastic and corrupt. What right does he have to demand a display of grief from another? Who is he to command such a thing?</p><p>Batman disappears again. Disappears for many weeks, but not yet a month, and returns with Robin. With Damian Wayne al Ghul. Alive. The boy is resurrected, breathing, and Alfred feels something tighten in his chest as Master Damian learns of the news that Nightwing, his Batman, is dead. Buried. Gone. The young boy shows no outward reaction, a stiff nod and words of condolences, but Alfred hears the boy’s tears in the dead of night because he too lays awake and cries for his lost grandchild. A week after the young master’s return, Alfred offers to drive him to the burial site. The boy accepts and sits in front of the grave for an hour, admiring the still fresh roses and touching the cool ground.</p><p>The two of them visit monthly and bond in their mourning.</p><p>Bludhaven suffers without the help of Nightwing. Even before the intervention, it was already a city filled with beings of corruption and greed, the opportunity for bribery and power the dream of many within. Batman and the coalition that follows him only visit when crime becomes unbearable, and even then it is hardly any help with the infrequency of it. Alfred visits the city as much as he can. Not in secret, no, and sometimes he’ll bring along one of the lonely brothers that have been left behind, but he visits to house keep and clean. He cannot bear the thought of selling Master Dick’s apartment, nor watch it go to dust and filth. It’s unhealthy, he knows this, but there is an honest yearning that tugs at his heart when he enters the late man’s housing and sees naked walls and an unmade bed. </p><p>It’s like a time capsule stuck in moments, and the first time Alfred enters the small apartment, it’s like Master Dick had only just left for a brief errand. There are cracked framed photos on his dresser: pictures of a younger Bruce and even littler Richard Grayson, a newspaper clipping of the new adoptee Jason Todd, a bashful looking Timothy Drake who barely reaches his older brother’s shoulder, and the newest looking addition of a sleeping Damian Wayne hugging a pillow. Seeing these peaceful moments, these perfect memories untainted with tragedies and pain, makes Alfred’s eyes mist over, and he sits for a long time on the unmade bed and stares at the frames, wishing, hoping, for better days to come sooner. Dreaming of pasts too long ago.</p><p>It is during the fifth month of Nightwing’s death that Alfred visits his grave alone. The roses have begun to wilt, their bright red petals falling in clusters and floating away in the wind. The grief has not lessened, only the dull ache in his soul, and Alfred collects what he can and takes the petals home. Before he has even been given the chance to take off his shoes when entering the Manor, he hears the clock mechanism <em> tick tick tick </em>and suddenly thundering footsteps are coming his way, and he is taken aback by the absolute glow he sees on Master Damian’s face. It is familiar. It is hopeful.</p><p>“He is alive,” the boy says breathless, his Robin boots still clasped firmly around his feet and spirit gum stubbornly clinging to his brow. “Richard is alive!”</p><p>The relief the young master revels in is not shared by all though. Master Tim is angered, though he simmers in quiet frustration, and Master Jason admits to having “Punched that bastard for showing his face.” The street accent returns in times of Master Jason’s irrationality, but Alfred does not address it. No, he is much too peeved and simultaneously overjoyed to waste his tired mind on something as petty as displeasure. Master Dick is alive! His eldest is alive!</p><p>However, one thing remains unchanged. Master Bruce continues on unfazed, calmly helping Master Tim begin an extraction plan for the lost son. The past five months have been spent working undercover for an organization known as Spyral, and it is only when Master Bruce carelessly pulls up all his files and information on the group does Alfred come to a realization.</p><p>“You knew,” he accuses, the tray of snacks in his hands shaking minutely. “You knew Master Dick was not dead. You sent him away.”</p><p>His child, rather Batman, does not look at him and it is all Alfred can do but to hastily set down the tray and walk back up the stone stairs and out of the Cave. When had his son accepted the breachment of such a line? When had his son become someone so willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of a mission? It is only later, in the colder hours of the night, that Alfred realizes that Master Bruce has always been this way. That he has always been willing to sacrifice it all for a simple goal; the Wayne reputation, a positive public persona, his role as a father, his own sons, all sacrificed in the name of Batman. Alfred should have seen this coming the night he brought home an orphan with eyes that had aged a lifetime in a single night.</p><p>Master Dick’s return is quiet. There is no immediate fanfare, no overzealous welcome homes nor tearful reunions. It is surprising, the lack of attention his return is given, but Master Dick reveals that Spyral had done something to make everyone forget about Richard Grayson, excluding Batman’s associates that is. About his identities and his unmasking. No one, not even the Justice League, will recall Nightwing’s true face, but rather that he had spent months both in recovery after the beating and on stealth missions. <em> Nightwing truly was the one buried then, </em> Alfred thinks ruefully. <em> Richard Grayson is still just a simple man living in Bludhaven on an extended vacation. </em></p><p>When he enters the Manor thinner and the slightest bit more shaky, Alfred reaches out his arms and is met with a bruising hug and, not for the first time, Alfred is grateful that Master Dick has always been gracious with his love of touch and physical affection. They hold each other for a long time, breathing in the scents of home and family, and Alfred feels the shattered pieces of his heart slowly put themselves back together inside of his bleeding chest.</p><p>His family is finally whole again and Alfred is beyond grateful for it. There is light and warmth in the Manor once more. There is peace between brothers and new sisters and stubborn fathers. There are new bonds created, new ties made, and now Alfred has the honor of beholding six legal grandchildren. Finally, there is purpose in his life once again. Finally, he does not have to lay awake in fear of another funeral, in fear of another death, in fear of yet another bout of guilt and disappointment.</p><p>Finally, Alfred Pennyworth feels his soul and his heart to be one. He is happy. He is whole. </p><p>But he knows he might not survive another heartbreak.</p><p>He cannot suffer an eighth.</p><hr/><p>He counts twelve people in attendance. Counts one priest dressed in a black albi. Counts one coffin, sealed shut, and twelve white rose heads scattered across it. They are not red. They are white. They are blank. He breathes in.</p><p>Counts the eighth funeral.</p><p>“I have agonized on what to say for a long time. I have re-written my thoughts and erased them over and over again in the hope of finding the right words. I tried in vain though.”</p><p>He has no note cards to steady his trembling hands. He does not dare to gaze down and recount the roses for guidance. He focuses on the faces he cannot see beyond the mist.</p><p>“I have lived and worked in service for Wayne Manor for over half of my life. In doing so, I have had the honor and privilege to meet some of the most astounding people there are. When I first met Richard Grayson, I was in my twenty-sixth year of service and Richard was in his second month of grief. The Manor was cold and lifeless and I was suddenly tasked with the challenge of caring for a boy who had been stripped of everything he once knew. Richard was a brave child though. Brave and kind and filled with the courage to love.</p><p>In the years following his induction into the Manor, Richard ignited a spark within its inhabitants. Not for the first time, I wonder to myself how that feat was accomplished. How someone so young was able to turn an old mansion into a home radiating warmth. Richard was the light Master Bruce had needed at that time. The light I had needed as well. Within his small body was the hope of a brighter future and a dream of betterment.”</p><p>Someone sniffs in the crowd. Alfred feels his hand searching for a handkerchief to offer. His hands find nothing though.</p><p>“When he grew up, out and away from Gotham, I found myself missing that familiar warmth. Missing his presence, his laughter, his love. But Richard had made up his mind and it was all any of us could do but to support his crusade for an improved Bludhaven. He had found his purpose in life, his calling, and I was… proud of him. Relieved in a way. As I look around, I see the faces of people whom Richard has affected throughout his life. The faces of family and friends that he devoted his very being to, who he loved and cared for in that special way of his that could not be matched by any other worldly source.</p><p>We have all been touched by Richard Grayson. Touched in a way that has left us scattered and searching for that familiarity that grieves in his absence. In all my years, I have yet to meet another soul quite like him, so striking in his compassion for others, his loyalty to those he trusts, and his unending devotion to those he cares for most. It is likely I will never meet another, so I feel blessed to have known such a great man. To have lended a hand in raising that greatness. To have witnessed that evolve into a magnificent inspiration to many others. I may be so bold to even lay a claim to having familial bonds to him, as the first thing I think of when describing Richard Grayson is grandson. Truly, I loved this boy more than I ever thought to be possible.</p><p>Richard was a son. A brother. A friend. A lover. A protector. He may have even been somewhat of a father to some. And still, even now, he is all those things. He is still Richard John Grayson and there is nothing else in the entire world I would wish him to be. Though we find the hole inside our hearts to be horribly wide and difficult, Richard would not want us to dwell on these thoughts. Find comfort in grief but do not let it allow you to forget your own purpose, for truly, Richard would weep for you in your loss. </p><p>My grandson was a man who found strength in his tears, not shame. So, do not apologize for your grief and do not shy away from it in these final moments. Embrace it, for they are a mark of power and a messenger of endless love and humanity.”</p><p>The mist does not clear. His eyes remain dry.</p><p>Alfred's heart trembles and cracks.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, I'm not dead~ just swamped with other complications! And I am also pleased to say that the grieving portion is now about done and we're going to start getting into the thick of the plot with the next chapter. I hope you guys didn't think I was forgetting about Alfred! I love that old, immortal man and I felt it was only right to dedicate a chapter in his perspective. It really made me think of how many funerals he's had to plan (all mostly his own freakin children, yikes), so this is where that led me.<br/>There's clearly a lot of canon timeline missing from this (like the part where Bruce gets amnesia and such), and some character backgrounds aren't really explored much in Alfred's POV, but let's just say that anything that wasn't clearly stated *does not exist* in this AU. That includes that short canon arc where Bruce explored the Court of Owls and Dick investigated the Parliament himself</p><p>Let me know what you guys thought!</p>
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